


Mountain Man

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Books, Boyfriends, Boys Kissing, Car Accidents, Caretaking, Confessions, Feelings, First Time, Flirting, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Keith calls Shiro Big Boy, M/M, Meet-Cute, Nicknames, Reading, Sexual Inexperience, Sharing a Bed, So Much Flannel, Virgin Keith (Voltron), copious Keith thirst, emotionally laced hand holding, enneagram types, flannel, mountain man keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: When Shiro lands a job at Marmora Rescue Center, he can't believe his dream of studying Grey wolves is coming true. But before he arrives, he loses control of his Jeep in the mountains. Injured and alone, he's rescued by a mystery man, and finds safety in the midst of a storm in his cabin. Stranded together, they discover they may have more in common than they could have ever expected.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 196
Kudos: 505





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for #sheithinautumn 2020 for the prompt Flannel. It was going to be short but as you can see I got carried away and now present you with 40k of just over two days together. Whoops.
> 
> Literally cannot thank starlitruns enough for endless support, beta reading while I wrote so I could finish in time and just being so supportive and encouraging.

A smile finds its way to Shiro’s face as he reaches out and turns up the volume on the radio as _Stairway to Heaven_ blares through the speakers. His perfect day just got better.

It’s hard for Shiro to believe that after years of laboring away doing research and helping with grant funding on the East coast that he’s finally here in California, about to embark on the most exciting development not only in his career, but his entire damn life. Three weeks ago he was stuck in a stuffy office, spending his days with his nose in a book or glued to a computer, and now he’s here, sailing down the winding mountain roads at forty miles an hour, the scent of pine filtering in through his cracked windows and the fading light of of the day casting a stunning orange glow on the horizon.

A laugh bubbles out of his chest as his Jeep rumbles down the road, an unexpected bump making his ass lift out of his seat. Shiro laughs, cranking the radio up even louder and singing at the top of his lungs.

Shiro’s GPS stopped working half an hour ago, but he’s not worried. There’s only one road, after all, so eventually he’s going to end up where he needs to be. Hopefully he can get there before the sun completely sets so he’s not trying to finish the last leg of the journey in the pitch dark. For all Shiro did his research about the local topography, he’s way outside of his comfort zone. It’s been a decade since he was in this part of the country.

Growing up in Kansas, Shiro got used to wide open landscapes, horizons dusted in golden rows of wheat and flat land as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful, but not what Shiro’s heart craved. What Shiro loved was summers spent visiting his grandparents who lived just outside of Yosemite. He liked skipping rocks in the rivers and building forts out of sticks and climbing the tallest trees until he was so high he felt like the king of the world. He liked being surrounded by mountains and rocky landscapes that provided an endless supply of places to explore and a sense of grandeur that left him in awe.

Moving out here was a dream—a pipe dream—and one that Shiro definitely never expected to come true.

As the song ends, Shiro turns the radio back down, not a fan of whatever song it is that's come on next. He reaches for his coffee, barely getting the thermos up to his lips when the road beneath him shifts. The car pulls to the left, sending a cascade of coffee out of the mug and onto Shiro’s shirt as he drops the cup to grab hold of the wheel with both hands, jerking the wheel to the right. It’s a near miss, Shiro’s Jeep teetering dangerously close to the edge of the roadside and the unforgiving terrain that lies below.

“Holy shit,” Shiro exhales, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Shiro the cause of his close call: a fallen tree branch in the middle of the road he’d failed to notice. Eyes back on the road in front of him, he resolves to pay even closer attention to the terrain, aware that he is most definitely not in Kansas anymore. Another glance at the floor shows the last of his coffee spilling into the carpet, but things could be worse, and Shiro’s just glad he managed to avoid going off the road.

The website had said this area could be dangerous, well out of the city limits with no publicly funded lands and the roads in disrepair. It’s just that knowing about them and driving them for the first time turn out to be two different things.

Shiro relaxes his grips, alternately stretching out the fingers in his flesh hand, then his prosthetic one, as he tries to get his breathing under control. Adrenaline courses through his veins as he continues to drive, tempted to put on the breaks but resists since there are no pull outs. He hasn’t seen another car or living soul since he pulled off the main road nearly an hour ago. It’s probably safe to just stop in the middle of the road, but Shiro’s nerves are shot enough that he doesn’t want to stop. He just wants to get to the rescue center and get out of the car for good.

He wishes his GPS was working so he could at least know how much longer he’s got. Shiro’s pretty good with directions, but his sense of time is absolute shit and he’s not sure if he's ten minutes or forty from his final destination. 

Thankfully there are no more branches in the road and four songs later Shiro’s nerves have finally settled, his unexpected near-death experience rapidly fading from memory as he focuses on the excitement ahead.

Then, in a split second, Shiro’s entire life changes.

One moment Shiro’s taking in the orange hues that filter down through the trees, and the next, he sees something moving out of the corner of his eye, something that runs in front of his car. Not just something, a wolf. An endangered Grey wolf. Acting on pure instinct, Shiro swerves to avoid missing the majestic animal, unable to stomach the idea of injuring an animal he’s spent most of his adult life studying and trying to protect. 

Unfortunately for him, the only option to avoid hitting the wolf is to veer to the right—and off the road.

Shiro has maybe half a second to realize the repercussions of what he’s done before his Jeep is sailing down the side of the side of the mountain, rocky terrain sending everything not tied down flying through the air as his Jeep rattles beneath him with each terrifying bounce. 

Futile as it might be, Shiro jams the brakes on as hard as he can but at his current velocity and the slope of the mountain, it's a lost cause. When he finally comes to a stop, Shiro almost wishes he hadn’t. The front of his Jeep collides with a massive tree that deploys the airbags and slams Shiro back into his seat with so much force the air is knocked from his lungs. A sharp pain blooms in his head as his neck snaps forward. It takes Shiro a good ten seconds to remember how to breathe as he attempts to take in his new surroundings. This far from the main road, the trees are denser, and there’s no way to see the stars in the sky or much of the fading evening light. It’s almost impossible for Shiro to tell where he is.

With an audible groan, Shiro unfastens his seatbelt, tentatively moving his arms and legs before rolling his neck from side to side. Nothing feels broken, but there’s a ringing in Shiro’s ears and he has no idea if it's from the airbag impact, the crash itself, or the shock. 

When he looks out the window, he sees that his Jeep is balanced precariously on the side of a cliff and his stomach drops out as his panic builds. The odds of having any cell reception out here are slim to none, but Shiro allows himself to hope anyway as he leans forward to yank open the glove compartment and grab his phone. He swipes across the screen to unlock it, but sure enough the no signal light flashes in the corner. 

Frustrated and unsettled, he throws the phone to the floor, slamming his hands against the steering wheel hard—connecting mostly with the blown airbag. The contact smarts more on his flesh hand, and both of them end up covered in the chemical powder. It does nothing to ease the anxiety building in him. If anything it makes it grow, especially when the engine creaks as the wind outside picks up, whistling through the cracked window.

Normally Shiro is a research first, act second kind of guy, but there’s no time for that right now. For all Shiro knows the weight of his Jeep might cause the tree he crashed into—lopsided and split in two—to give way and send him sailing the rest of the way down the mountain. He’s watched his fair share of survival documentaries before and there’s definitely something about staying put in all of them, but Shiro can’t stay put. He’s rapidly losing the last rays of daylight and any chance he might have of making it to the rescue center on foot. He’s got no food, no water, and no way to contact anyone for help. It could be a good twenty-four hours before anyone realizes he never showed up for work and by then Shiro could be at the bottom of the ravine, unconscious or worse. That and the fact that the inside of his car smells awful, the chemicals--sodium azide, he remembers from undergrad chem lab--burning his nose as the sound of his own rapid breathing fills his ears.

In all of Shiro’s research about living on the West Coast, not once had he prepared for this scenario. He’d read up on using the stars to navigate, on how to filter fresh water sources in case of emergency and even about what local foliage was edible or poisonous. What he had not read up on was what to do if you accidentally drive yourself off the edge of a goddamn mountain. 

He’s isn’t sure what’s the right thing to do right now; all he knows is that he doesn’t feel safe. He needs to move, and he needs to move now.

Adrenaline races through his veins as he opens the door, a cold gust of air billowing into the warmth inside. The scent of pine and dirt mixes with the acidic scent inside the car as smoke billows from the eerily silent engine. When Shiro stumbles outside it’s on surprisingly unsteady legs, something he blames on the rocky terrain.

The ringing in his ears continues as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, slamming the Jeep door shut behind him. He eyes the vehicle which, aside from being stuck on the side of a mountain, is clearly totaled. Shit. The only thing keeping him from crying is the fact that he splurged on the full insurance from the rental agency.

It’s a lot harder to maneuver the slope than Shiro expected, the gravel beneath his boots making him slip, and his hands fly out as he crashes to the ground. Blood stains the rocks and Shiro turns his palms up, surprised to find a nasty gash across his flesh palm. He doesn’t even feel it, his heart thudding against his ribcage as the sounds of the nocturnal creatures of the forest stirring hits his ears—a howling wolf, rustling leaves and the hooting of an owl.

It almost feels like having an out of body experience, watching the blood run out of his hand and down onto his pants, which he’s only now realizing are ripped. The logical part of Shiro’s brain is aware that he’s probably injured, but it’s a vague awareness belied by the adrenaline racing through his veins and making him unable to feel anything except the urgent need to keep moving. Leaves rustle above him as the last of the day's light disappears, cloaking Shiro in darkness so pervasive he can barely see his own feet.

Shiro’s never been scared of the dark. He’s scared now.

It’s the fear that makes him reckless, his movements becoming too hurried as he tries to make his way down the mountainside without being able to see where he’s stepping. When he falls he doesn’t even see it coming; his right foot making contact with what he thinks is solid dirt but turns out to be anything but. If pressed Shiro would guess it was a gnarled tree root, but it's too dark to know for sure. It’s just enough uneven terrain to throw him off balance and send him crashing to the ground, except this time not even throwing his hands out is enough to keep him in place and instead of ending up sprawled on the ground, he tumbles down.

And down.

And down.

It’s a long fucking way to the bottom. Shiro feels a bit like he did when he was a kid and he used to find a grassy hill to roll down in the summers, except the dizziness isn’t exciting this time. Instead, it’s terrifying, because Shiro can barely tell which way is up and which is down as he rolls down the hill, hands scrambling to grab hold of anything to stop himself but coming up with nothing more than a fistful of rocks that make his left hand sting. His body gains speed as he rolls down, throwing his arms up to try and protect his face as much as he can as his body slams into the ground over and over. Tree branches scratch him, rocks jab into him in painful places, and his body crashes to the ground like a rag doll.

Eventually Shiro does stop moving, but only because his ribs make contact with a tree. This Shiro feels, the pain lancing through his body as he turns his face into the dirt and lets out a sob, his tears making dirt stick to his cheeks. Lying there on the cold, hard ground his body begins to shake, but whether from the sudden cold or an adrenaline drop he has no idea.

For a few minutes Shiro just lies there, tears still streaming down his face as he stares up at the canopy of trees, the cleaning thin enough here that a sliver of moonlight filters down through the trees. Once the tears subside, Shiro forces himself into a sitting position, groaning at the staggering amount of pain in his ribs and praying they’re just bruised and not broken. 

Mustering every ounce of strength he possesses, Shiro braces a hand on the ground and manages to stand. He immediately regrets the action, which highlights just how much his ribs hurt, and his legs, and his, well—everything. The temptation to lie back down on the forest floor is high, but Shiro’s never been the kind of guy to give up or be comfortable with inaction. That and he knows he’s going to start losing body heat and fast if he stays still. Then there’s the fact that it’s bear season in California and Shiro isn’t keen to add bear attack to his ever growing list of injuries.

With no small amount of pain, he begins to walk, legs shaking as he stumbles around like a newly born calf. It makes sense given what Shiro’s been through, but the weakness makes Shiro feel vulnerable and he hates it. The more he moves, the more clear it becomes that Shiro is in bad shape. He’s pretty sure that it shouldn’t hurt so much to breathe, every ragged inhale sending a wave of pain to his ribs as he’s forced to stop every few seconds to grab onto the nearest tree to stop from collapsing to the ground again.

Time loses all sense of meaning as Shiro struggles to keep going in what he really fucking hopes is the right direction. It’s hard to get his bearings with his head pounding and the buzzing in his ears refusing to leave him, ever more so with the increase of pain. Shiro’s always had a decent pain tolerance, but this is on a level Shiro hasn’t felt since he lost his arm. With every passing minute, the more his knee smarts and the harder it gets to take breaths.

Every rustle of leaves and animal cry sets Shiro’s already fragile nerves on edge. If something tried to attack him he’d be a sitting duck, in too much pain to fight back and too weak to run away. Feeling defenseless is about the worst thing in the world for Shiro, who does his best to push the worst-case scenario thoughts out of his mind as he stumbles along, but his natural tendency for optimism is rapidly spiraling into something a lot more hopeless. 

Try as he might to think positive thoughts, Shiro doesn’t see how this can end well for him. He knows he’s moving slow, but it feels like he’s been on his feet for hours and with every yard of ground he traverses his remaining strength is leaving him. He’s not sure how much longer he can continue on like this. Complicating matters is the fact that it's definitely getting colder. Shiro’s only dressed in his college hoodie and a pair of jeans, neither of which are providing enough warmth. It’s cold as absolute fuck, cold enough Shiro’s body is starting to tremble and fingers of his flesh hand hurt. 

With his strength dwindling, Shiro continues on, his breathing ragged and a wince falling from his lips with every step. The annoying buzzing in Shiro’s ears is so loud that he doesn’t even realize he’s approaching a river until he’s standing right in front of it, the gurgling sound of rushing water filling his ears. Exhaustion seeps into every muscle, the fight going out of him. This is it; he’s hit an end. To his left, the trees are so thick Shiro couldn’t get through them if he tried, and to the right, nothing but a long winding river can be seen, moonlight glimmering off its rippling surface in a sight that would be more beautiful if it didn’t feel like the signature on Shiro’s death certificate.

The fight knocked out of him, Shiro slumps to the ground. He doesn’t cry, but only because he’s too fucking tired.

For so long—since he grandparents died when he was fifteen—Shiro dreamed of coming back out here. He loves his parents and his childhood had been amazing, but Kansas never felt like home. A small town with only one streetlight and pie recipes on the front page of the local paper was his parents’ dream life, not Shiro’s. He’s always longed for adventure, for something more than his small town could offer him. Now he’s finally here and his dream is dying before he gets a chance to live it.

Shiro exhales, choking on his own breath and wincing at the pain that lances through him. He’s about to close his eyes, prepared to let sleep take him when he spots it: a light in the distance. 

All the air leaves Shiro’s lungs as he scrambles up to his feet, ignoring the pain that shoots through him from moving too quickly. There’s no mistaking what he’s seeing—smoke billing out of a chimney and the flickering light visible through a window—it’s a _cabin_.

It’s too small and remote to be the rescue center, but Bigfoot himself could live there and Shiro would still go knock on the door right now. He’s cold and hungry and everything hurts, but the knowledge that maybe he’s not going to die out here alone gives Shiro a last burst of strength. He just needs to cross the river, the dark, tumultuous river.

He can do this. 

Probably. 

Maybe.

“Suck it up, Shirogane,” Shiro mutters, regretting the words and the pain it causes in his chest. Apparently talking hurts. Shiro’s not experienced in first aid but it doesn’t seem like a good sign.

The only upside to his pain is that it strengthens Shiro’s resolve to cross the river, no matter how dangerous. He’s too close to finding help and he won’t give up now even if the odds are stacked against him. That resolve falters as soon as Shiro steps into the water. It’s so cold that it feels like his ankle is being stabbed.

“Fuck,” Shiro hisses, taking another step.

The water laps around his ankles, shallow near the edge of the riverbank. Shiro’s not naive enough to think it stays that way all the way across. Out here the trees are sparse enough that the moon’s glow lights up his pathway and the roaring river in front of him. On a good day Shiro is an excellent swimmer, but today is not a good day.

Hesitation rises in Shiro, the fear of just how deep the water gets or how strong the current might be below the rippling surface. If he can’t get across fast enough, he might be swept away, his body disappearing downstream. It’s a prospect that sends ice into Shiro’s veins. 

The longer he stands in the shallows, the more anxiety prickles up his spine. This is not a smart idea. The water is so cold that the idea of submerging more of his body in it is almost unthinkable, but not as unthinkable as remaining on the wrong side of the river alone. 

That thought propels Shiro forward, his feet slipping on the rocks below his boots as he trudges through the water. The deeper he gets, the more the pinpricks increase, the pain not unlike being stabbed by hundreds of needles. He stays upright as long as he can, his arms held high as the water soaks his pants and the bottom of his shirt. It’s absolutely fucking freezing and Shiro wants to cry. 

The next step has Shiro losing his footing, his entire body slipping beneath the water. It’s so unexpected and so cold that the air rips from Shiro’s lungs as he's engulfed in pain from the temperature. It’s only a decade of swimming every morning at the local Y that gives Shiro the ability to make his way back to the surface as he gulps for air that won’t fill his lungs. Unfortunately this isn’t Shiro’s special swimming prosthetic and he knows he needs to get out of the water fast before he damages the tech, or worse, drowns. 

The water is so cold he can’t breathe, his limbs heavy as if someone were trying to drag him to the ground. The only thing Shiro knows is pain as he cries out, mustering every single ounce of strength he possesses to fight with the current and make his way across.

By some miracle he makes it, his fingers clawing into the muddy side of the riverbank as he drags himself out inch by inch before he collapses, gnarled tree roots and rocks beneath his back. It should probably hurt but the only thought in Shiro’s brain is how fucking cold he is.

Cold. So damn cold.

The chill pervades his entire body, creeping into his very bones. It’s hard to think about anything else when it feels as if the cold has seeped into his very soul, his teeth chattering loudly and his entire body shaking. He knows he should be moving but he can’t manage to stir his arms or legs, the last of his strength used up by crossing the river. It seems so unfair to have made it so far, but not far enough. 

“Help,” Shiro yells, his voice small and broken. 

He turns his head to the side and squints, just barely able to make out a flickering light in the distance. The cabin is too far away now, the current having dragged him a good quarter mile down the riverbank. No one is going to hear him.

“Help,” he tries again, body shaking so hard it feels like the ground beneath him is moving. It takes a second for Shiro to realize he’s the one that’s moving, shudders wracking his entire body in a desperate last ditch attempt to find warmth. Shiro might not know a lot about first aid but he knows this: if someone doesn’t find him soon he is going to die.

Shiro doesn’t want to die.

 _Help_ he thinks, the world darkening around him as his eyes fall shut. 

_Help_ he thinks, so scared and alone.

 _“Help,”_ he tries one last time, his words barely above a whisper.

A strange buzzing filling his brain as the thoughts of his pain begin to fade. This, too, is probably a bad sign but Shiro is too tired and cold to care. Distantly Shiro is aware of the sound of something running. Some part of him thinks he should be afraid, should open his eyes to see if it's a bear or a wolf coming to eat him, but he doesn’t. 

The sound of leaves crunching gets louder. Whatever it is that's coming towards him is moving fast.

“Please don’t eat me,” Shiro whispers, head lolling to the side as rough fingers cup the side of his face.

_Hands. Human hands._

“You’re okay. Everything's gonna be okay.”

Even with diminished mental capacity Shiro can tell the stranger sounds scared, the pitch of their voice high and conviction dripping from every word. It’s a balm to Shiro’s tired, cold heart even if he knows the words hold no truth. Shiro isn’t going to be fine. He’s too cold and everything hurts and his tenuous grasp on consciousness is rapidly slipping away. 

It’s too late. The stranger found him too late. 

Shiro is going to die, but he's not alone. 

The fingers smooth over his cheeks and across his forehead, checking for something maybe; Shiro has no idea. All he knows is that the fingers are so warm they almost hurt, his own skin cold as ice.

Still, they feel nice. At least until they abruptly disappear. Before Shiro can try to beg the stranger not to leave him alone, there are arms sliding beneath Shiro’s knees and his neck. Then, without warning, Shiro is lifted from the ground in a way he hasn’t since he was a child, still small enough for his dad to carry him to bed when he inevitably fell asleep in the backyard watching the stars. Shiro’s not so little anymore, but this stranger hefts him up easily. 

The stranger’s body radiates warmth and Shiro is ashamed at the way he turns his face into the man’s neck and presses in as tightly as possible, too tired to cry as the bone-deep exhaustion hits him. 

“I’ve got you now,” he whispers, cradling Shiro to his chest. “You’re safe.” 

It’s exactly what Shiro needs to hear as the last of the fight goes out of him and lets the darkness take him.

* * *

Shiro awakes with a start, whimpering when he tries to roll onto his side and is met with a pain in his ribs so intense it robs all the air from his lungs.

“Try not to move too much,” someone says. 

The voice is familiar and it takes Shiro a few seconds to realize why—the forest, someone rescuing him. He’d thought it was a dream, but he’s definitely in a bed and not lying on the cold, hard ground so the odds of him hallucinating are low. Then again, it’s hard to be sure of anything right now with his brain so fuzzy with sleep that nothing really makes sense.

He tries to open his eyes to get a glimpse of the mystery man who saved him, but his eyelids feel made of lead, exhaustion permeating his entire body and making it impossible for him to do more than let out a pathetic whine. He’s so tired. And cold, so cold. Shiro shivers, trying to burrow himself into the bed. 

“Oh, you’re still cold,” the man says. It’s followed by the sound of wood scraping and then the sound of footsteps pattering across the floor. There’s quiet for a few seconds, and then more footsteps as something heavy and warm is draped over his body. The stranger's knuckles brush against his skin as the blanket is tucked up to Shiro’s chin with a surprising amount of care, surrounding him in comfort. With his eyes shut, his other senses are on high alert and Shiro notices immediately the way the scent of fire clings to the blanket as its heavy warmth lulls Shiro back to sleep.

Curiosity rises in Shiro about who it is that’s taken it upon themselves to nurse a complete stranger back to health, but his body is too exhausted to stay awake long enough to get a good look at the mystery man who saved him. There are just snatches of moments that break through his sleep—calloused fingers pressing against his wrist, a gentle hand smoothing the hair off his forehead, and a steady voice assuring him he is safe. Through blurry, heavy eyelids he sees the silhouette of a man in front of a fireplace, the flames dancing in the hearth casting shadows upon his flannel shirt. Later Shiro swears he sees a wolf but chalks that up to a hallucination, closing his eyes almost immediately.

Over the next few hours Shiro continues to wake, in too much pain to get any decent amount of rest. Each time the short periods of wakefulness are met with kind words from the same now familiar voice, helping to fight away the unease prickling at his mind. 

“Here, drink,” the stranger says the next time Shiro wakes. There’s a straw nudging at his lips and Shiro is barely able to open his mouth to swallow some water, his throat dry and his head pounding. “That’s it, drink a little more. Good job.”

The words soothe the fractured edges of Shiro’s mind. He’s so tired and everything hurts too much to even be curious about who is taking care of him or where he is. Something in the man’s voice is warm and soothing and Shiro forgets to be afraid and simply trusts.

“Okay, now take these,” he says, calloused fingertips pressing pills to his mouth. He should probably question taking pills from a stranger, but Shiro’s too out of it to do so. “It’s just some over the counter pain meds. It won’t take it all away, but it should help. That’s it, now drink more.”

The straw returns to his mouth and Shiro drinks and drinks until the cup is empty.

“That’s amazing. You did so well. Now rest.”

Shiro has so many questions, but they all take a backseat in the face of the kind voice urging him to rest. He’s sure it must be his sleep-addled state that’s making him think the stranger sounds so genuinely concerned. It has to be. Still, so far from home and hurting, it’s nice to feel like someone cares.

“Sleep,” he urges, so sleep he does. 

Time ceases to have real meaning for Shiro, the meds giving him enough of a reprieve from the pain that he finally manages to stay asleep. Unfortunately even that ends eventually, his body’s needs rousing him from sleep. 

“Ow,” Shiro huffs when he next wakes. Some of the confusion and heaviness in his mind seems to mostly be gone, but all that means is that Shiro is acutely aware of how bad he _hurts_. He’s sore as hell and feels like he fell down a mountain, then he remembers that he did, the accident fresh in his mind as he sits up. He regrets the choice immediately, his ribs screaming at him for the movement as he drops back down onto the pillow and resolves to never move again.

The bed beneath him is comfortable, but different than he’s used to. The sheets are scratchier than Shiro’s sheets, the mattress softer. It’s a sharp juxtaposition and before Shiro knows it there are tears leaking from his eyes. He swipes away at them angrily, surprised to find his left hand wrapped in gauze. Shiro never cries and he hates that he is now, especially since it makes his ribs hurt.

It takes him a good minute or so to calm his breathing down enough to stop the tears. When he does, he’s finally able to get a good look at his surroundings now that he’s finally conscious enough to do so. There’s barely any light streaming in through the windows but there’s enough illumination from a small lamp near the couch and a light in the kitchen that Shiro can see well enough. At first he thinks it’s still night, then he takes notice of the rain beating against the windows and realizes it could be any time of day.

The first thing he notices is that he’s alone. The second is that he’s currently in a surprisingly large bed with cotton sheets and piles of blankets atop him, some sherpa-lined flannel and some that seem to be hand-knitted. The mattress is on a rustic frame with a substantial head and footboard that looks like someone carved it. The bed itself is situated in the corner of the small, one-room cabin and the location gives Shiro a perfect view of the entire place without having to move. 

On the opposite wall is a quaint little little kitchen—a kettle on the top of a wood burning stove and dark wood cabinets. There’s a tiny little table in the kitchen area with three chairs, each with the same rough, hand-carved craftsmanship as the bed. Despite the three chairs, there’s only one coffee cup on the table, along with a book turned over on the table.

Near the door is a coat rack with rows of boots on the bottom and several flannel shirts hanging on the hooks. It’s not just the bed or the kitchen; the entire cabin appears to be full of the same hand crafted furniture—a little table beside the bed, a sturdy little coffee table in front of a tiny sofa and a massive bookshelf that takes up at least one third of the entire cabin. The shelves are lined with rows and rows of books, but between them are other little odds and ends—knives, an impressive collection of what appears to be whittled little figurines of wolves and even a multitude of picture frames, though they are too far away for Shiro to be able to assuage his curiosity and see who is in the photos.

There’s a fireplace near the foot of the bed, a roaring fire ablaze in it. It, too, has more of the impressive woodwork, a massive mantle surrounding it. The top of it is decorated with more wooden wolves, a few random rocks, another photoframe and something that looks suspiciously like an actual sword.

Shiro blinks, his pain momentarily forgotten as he wonders over his current location, curiosity and admiration rising. It’s absolutely beautiful, and it’s clearly someone’s _home_.

His thoughts are interrupted by the front door opening and a massive wolf dog running in, followed by the most beautiful person Shiro has ever laid eyes on. He’s soaking wet, arms laden down with firewood that looks surprisingly dry.

The stranger is tall and lean with pitch black hair he’s got pulled up in a messy bun atop his head, stray little wisps framing the sharp angles of his face and a little bit of it sticking up in the back. He’s dressed in a pair of light wash jeans, rolled up to the ankles with heavy hiking boots. On top he’s wearing a thick, white thermal with a black and red flannel thrown over. He looks like something out of a dream. On more than one occasion Shiro’s considered himself a pretty fortunate man but not even he can imagine what he’s done in a past life to be lucky enough to have been rescued by someone who looks like a cross between a sexy mountain man and an actual angel.

“Oh, fuck, you’re awake,” the man says, dropping his armload of logs straight onto the floor and practically running to Shiro. He squats down, brushing the white hair off Shiro’s forehead and letting his fingers linger on Shiro’s forehead as he checks his temperature. “How are you feeling?”

Shiro gapes. Up close the man is somehow even prettier. He’s got dark eyes the color of the night sky and impossibly pretty lips. His features are delicate, but there’s something sharp and strong in his demeanor that leaves Shiro with no doubt this man is someone who can handle himself. The knives suddenly make a lot more sense. He definitely looks like the kind of man who would have knives.

Behind him the massive wolf dog whines, trying to get closer to inspect Shiro. Keith removes his hand from Shiro’s forehead and moves it to the dog’s fur, patting his back. “Easy, Kosmo. No licking the guest.”

The dog, _Kosmo_ , whines again, his tail thumping against the side of the footboard. He’s huge and Shiro can do nothing more than stare.

“He won’t bite, I promise,” the man says, rubbing the dog’s head. “This is Kosmo. And I'm Keith.”

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, voice cracking a little. It’s nice to have a name.

“Yup,” Keith says with an easy grin, eyes crinkling at the corner. It makes him unfairly pretty. Shiro doesn’t even want to guess what he looks like but if the way he feels is any indication, then it’s probably pretty fucking bad. “Do you know your name?”

“Uh huh,” Shiro says, eyes still riveted on Keith. He can’t believe fate dropped the most beautiful man alive into his life while Shiro is such a fucking mess. He doesn’t have anything witty or flirty to say. He doesn’t have any words, period. He’s tired and emotionally unsteady in the face of Keith’s kindness and strength and Shiro wants to cry. 

He absolutely will not fucking cry in front of a stranger. He won’t.

“That’s good. You wanna tell me what it is, big guy?”

"Shiro," he chokes out, wheezing at the nickname and grimacing at the pain that lance through his ribs as a result. 

“Easy,” Keith murmurs, reaching out to gently rest his hand on the blanket over Shiro’s chest. “You can have some more ibuprofen soon which should help with the pain. Nothing is broken so far as I could tell, but the bruising is pretty nasty. I gave you some pain meds about four hours ago so those are probably wearing off by now. But I’d feel a lot better if I could make sure you don’t have a concussion and maybe get you to eat something before giving you more.”

Still Shiro says nothing. He wants to, knows he should, but he feels so wrongfooted from the car accident, and the whole falling down a mountain and nearly dying in the river thing that his ability to form words is minimum at best.

“I’m sorry,” is what Shiro eventually says.

Keith’s eyebrows knit together in obvious confusion. “What for?”

“Taking your bed.”

A pause, then he snorts. “You’re sweet.”

Shiro can feel the blush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest and he’s glad most of him is hidden under a mountain of blankets.

“Oh, uh...thank you. You know, for saving me. I mean, it was you right? I think it was you but well, maybe someone else lives here.” He pauses, at least having enough of his wits about him to realize pointing out that Keith doesn’t look big enough to bridal carry Shiro across the woods would be a rude thing to say out loud. 

Keith puffs up his chest, shoulders and back straightening. “I carried you.”

This too makes Shiro flush, suddenly far too warm. 

“Okay,” Shiro croaks.

With a smug grin, Keith holds out two fingers. “Can you follow this?”

“Yes,” Shiro nods, tracking the movement with his eyes. Keith repeats the motion two more times before he appears appeased.

“There was no sign of head trauma so I was pretty sure it wasn’t a concussion, especially since you were semi-lucid last night the few times you woke up, but you can never be too safe. I’m sorry for not calling search and rescue, but the storm kicked up right after I got you home and with the river rising and low visibility with the trees they never would have made it here.”

Keith shrugs, looking unsure. As if Shiro might be put out that a beautiful stranger in the woods not only rescued him but brought him into his home and kept watch all night.

“You took care of me,” Shiro murmurs. It’s not really a question; he knows it was Keith, the soothing tone of his voice unmistakable. “Why?”

This seems to give Keith pause as he averts his gaze, staring at Kosmo and scratching him between the ears. “You needed me.”

It’s a simple answer but it does something funny to Shiro’s already fragile heart. He’s not sure what to do with the sudden desire to bury himself beneath the blankets and hide. At best, he’d thought he’d wake up in a sterile hospital room alone, the sickening scent of disinfectant and flowers in his nose, the things he’d smelled after the accident that took his arm. At worst he expected to die of hypothermia alone on the cold, hard bank, unsure if anyone might even find his body to send home to his parents.

That someone—no, not someone, _Keith_ —found him and _took care of him_ is more than Shiro can bear. He’s never been good at needing people but Keith is right. Shiro needed someone, and Keith was there. He had no obligation or duty and yet here he is, letting a stranger steal his bed while he tends to him.

“You’re a good person,” Shiro utters, hoping Keith attributes the wobbliness in his voice to his injuries.

“Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” Keith shrugs.

Shiro very much doubts it but he’s too rattled to say as much.

“I’m going to check your pulse now, if that’s okay?” Keith asks, reaching out but stopping himself from touching Shiro until he gets permission. 

Shiro nods, lifting his left arm off the blanket and holding it out to Keith, who cradles Shiro’s upturned hand in his own, pressing two fingers to the pulse point. Keith closes his eyes as he counts and Shiro forgets how to breathe. It’s just two fingers on his wrist but Keith’s fingers are rough and warm and the touch makes longing well up in Shiro.

“It’s a little bit high,” Keith says when he finishes counting, careful as ever as he deposits Shiro’s wrist on the bed.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, pretty sure that’s from Keith touching him but definitely not about to say it out loud.

“It’s probably just from the pain,” Keith offers, patting the blanket. “An elevated heart rate is pretty normal considering what you’ve been through. I’ll keep checking if that’s okay with you. I mean once the storm breaks, I can call search and rescue so you’re not stuck here in my poky little cabin, but you know.”

“I like your cabin,” Shiro blurts, turning his head to watch Keith as he rises to stand and shoves his hands in his pocket.

Shiro can’t be sure if it's the light casting shadows on Keith’s cheeks or if he actually blushes as he ducks his head and whispers, “Oh, thanks.”

Before he can say anything else, Kosmo darts forward and shoves his cold, wet snout into Shiro’s cheek, licking his face. Shiro is so shocked he tenses, but that makes everything hurt, and before he knows it he’s letting out a pathetic whine.

“Shit, sorry,” Keith exclaims, dropping back down to his knees and moving between Kosmo and Shiro. “He’s not used to many people. He’s just really curious. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, trying and failing to fight off a grimace.

Keith cocks his head to the side, appraising Shiro intently. He’s even closer to Shiro than before and it’s hard to say if it’s better or worse. Shiro’s always been a bit of a mess for a pretty face and Keith’s is the prettiest he’s ever seen. 

“Do you need anything?” Keith asks. He says it so casually, as if he really means it and not as if he’s hoping for Shiro to say no.

The truth is Shiro can think of a lot of things he needs—a hug, to pee, to go back in time and somehow prevent the accident, to not feel on the verge of falling apart in front of a stranger, or to get something to stop the gnawing hunger in his stomach—but he says none of these out loud. Shiro’s biggest flaw has always been that he spends his life advocating for others and not himself. It’s part of what makes him so incredible at his job and why he got the offer at the rescue center; Shiro has a fierce sense of justice and the desire to protect others. 

But when it comes to himself, well, he’s not good at saying what he wants or needs, even when someone is asking him. _Especially_ when someone is asking him. A direct confession of not being okay is somehow the hardest thing ever for Shiro.

It’s stupid and ridiculous and somehow makes him want to cry again. He hates that he's not okay and he hates that he’s imposing on Keith and he just, he hates it all. It’d almost be easier if Keith wasn’t so damn kind and caring because then Shiro could easily pretend he was fine. But Keith’s asking like he cares and it’s making it impossible for Shiro to pretend he’s okay when he’s so obviously not.

Mistaking his silence, Keith sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Sorry,” Keith says, “I’m not good at this. I’m used to taking care of animals, not people. Not that I’m not qualified to look after you or whatever, I am. Just, fuck.”

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks, reaching out to touch the top of Keith’s hand with metal fingers.

“Oh, my god, you’re the one who almost died and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“Sorry,” Shiro says softly, pulling his hand back.

“No, no you’re good,” Keith laughs, shaking his head. “You’re just…I didn’t know people like you actually existed.”

Shiro has no idea what that means and he’s too out of it to ask. Keith’s initial arrival was enough to distract Shiro from his pain, but now that the surprise of meeting him is wearing off it’s getting harder and harder to ignore how much he hurts. Or how much he needs to pee, which is something he doesn’t even want to think about since he can barely sit up in bed and has no idea how he’s supposed to take a piss.

“Listen I’m just, I’m not great with people. But if you need anything I’d like if you told me so I can try to help.”

Shiro rallies against the gut reaction to say no. “Could you help me take off the prosthetic? It’s not meant to be slept in and uh...yeah.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure and I didn’t...I didn’t want to hurt you or—”

“No, you’re fine,” Shiro assures him. “It’s not hurting me more than anything else on my body.”

He laughs but Keith doesn’t join in. 

“Tell me what to do,” Keith says, face screwing up in concentration. 

Shiro tries to school his features. He’s at the mercy of a stranger and doesn’t have the luxury of feeling awkward or uncomfortable just because he never takes his prosthetic off in front of anyone besides doctors.

“It uh...it attaches on the bottom. Just wrap your hands around the upper bicep and feel for the seam in the back.” Keith’s lips thin and his eyebrows furrow as he leans over Shiro and does as he’s told. “Now feel along the seam and when you find that—”

Before he can finish, Keith finds the button and pushes. In one fluid movement the vacuum seal releases and Keith pulls the prosthetic off, which lets out a soft whirr as it powers down. 

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers, oddly insecure now that he’s down an arm.

“Of course,” Keith says, clearing his throat as he stands tall. He sets the prosthetic on the side table carefully before turning his attention back on Shiro. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

“I need to pee,” Shiro blurts before he can overthink it. He doesn’t even want to imagine how much help he’s going to need to do it, but he also knows if he doesn’t ask for help now he might just piss himself and that would be infinitely more embarrassing.

“Okay,” Keith replies without missing a beat. “The bathroom is through that door in the corner.”

He allows his gaze to follow Keith’s, noticing for the first time the small door off the kitchen. The cabin isn’t big so even on the opposite side of the cabin, it’s not actually far. It might as well be a mile away though for Shiro, who barely feels capable of sitting up on his own. He can’t imagine stumbling all the way to the bathroom.

“I can help,” Keith offers, apparently as aware of Shiro’s limitations as Shiro is. “So far as I could tell nothing is broken so you can walk, but you’re also going to be pretty sore and shaky so it might be difficult. I could carry you again if you wanted.”

Heat rushes to Shiro’s face. As nice as the offer is and as affecting as Shiro finds the idea that Keith is physically capable of doing it, he’s not sure his pride would allow him to be carried to the bathroom while conscious.

“I can walk,” he says, though whether it's true or not remains to be seen.

“Alright,” Keith says, taking a few steps back to give Shiro more room. He snaps his fingers and Kosmo moves to his side immediately, sitting down and nuzzling his snout into Keith’s hand.

It’s only when Shiro moves—ignoring the pain that lances across his ribs as he sits up—that he becomes aware of a glaring truth.

_Shiro is naked._

It seems impossible that he didn’t realize before but between the shock of nearly dying and then waking up in a cabin having been rescued by a half mountain man, half Disney prince come to life all within twenty four hours, he thinks maybe he’s allowed a little wiggle room for missing the obvious. And holy shit, if it isn’t obvious now. 

Just to be sure he lifts up the heavy stack of blankets and peers beneath, ignoring the nasty red and purple bruises that litter his body in favor of gaping at his very bare dick.

“I’m naked,” he blurts, which is a stupid thing to say since Keith clearly already knows this.

“I mean, yeah?” Keith says, looking at Shiro like he’s lost it. Maybe he has. Shiro doesn’t even know what the fuck his life has become. “Your clothes were soaked from the river and you were hypothermic. You could’ve died.”

Shiro’s not exactly modest. Back when he was in the hospital for his amputation and later again for the prosthetic, he had more than his fair share of being naked in front of strangers, both for basic exams and for help with bodily functions when he was too weak to do it on his own.

Still, it’s been years since Shiro needed help going to the bathroom and Keith’s not a nurse. It’d be easier if he was. Shiro could compartmentalize the help he needs more easily if this were actually Keith’s job. Instead he’s just the most decent human Shiro’s ever met, taking care of someone he doesn’t know and letting them into his home. 

“You sure you don’t need me to carry you?” Keith asks again, and Shiro can feel the blush spreading up his neck. 

“Nope,” he chokes out, repressing a wince as he slides his legs out from beneath the blankets and out, leaving his dick covered for as long as possible.

“If it helps, I have a dick too. It’s no big deal,” Keith says in a tone Shiro has no idea how to read.

He really doesn’t need reminding that Keith has a dick; there’s a visible bulge in his just this side of too small jeans that’s hard to miss. The words do nothing but highlight how acutely attracted to Keith he is. Everything about Keith from his long limbs and dark hair to the little bit of stubble around his jawline and the damp flannel shirt that clings to the flat of his stomach makes Shiro dizzy. 

Growing up as one of the only gay kids in a small town in Kansas didn’t exacty leave Shiro with a big dating pool, but he had an imagination and Keith looks like he walked directly out of one of Shiro’s wet dreams. The only upside to Shiro’s intense level of pain right now is that he’s too uncomfortable to get an inappropriate boner.

Shiro prepares himself emotionally for the harrowing journey of hobbling across the room while buck naked—standing up on shaky legs and surprised at how hard it is—when Keith grabs a small throw blanket off the edge of the couch.

“To keep you warm,” he says, wrapping it around Shiro’s shoulders. It’s too small to really cover all of him and Shiro can feel the edge of the blanket skimming across his ass. It’s something, though, and Shiro appreciates the gesture. 

“Thanks,” he whispers as he takes one step, nearly crumbling to the floor when his legs wobble. 

Compared to the pain in his upper body, his legs hardly even hurt—there’s definitely nothing sprained or broken—but he feels _weak_ and more sore than he could’ve possibly imagined. Worse, the single step he’s taken is a glaring reminder of how vulnerable Shiro is, his entire body aching and his ribs screaming at him as he inhales sharply from surprise. 

“Just rest your weight on me,” Keith instructs, dislodging the blanket as he lifts Shiro’s left arm around his shoulder to better support his weight. He doesn’t ask if Shiro wants help, for which Shiro is grateful. They both know he won’t make it to the bathroom alone and this way Shiro is spared having to actually admit as much out loud. Plausible deniability is a surprisingly powerful tool in helping to combat Shiro’s rising sense of helplessness.

Halfway across the room they have to pause, Shiro nearly breathless from taking ten full steps and barely able to remain upright without pain making him shake. There’s not a chance Keith doesn’t notice but he refrains from mentioning it, slipping an arm around Shiro’s waist and resting his hand against Shiro’s hip. In another circumstance Shiro would categorize the embrace as a hug, his body resting against Keith’s from hip to shoulder. 

Objectively, it should be horrifyingly embarrassing now that the blanket has all but fallen off since Shiro doesn’t have his prosthetic on to hold it up. It leaves Shiro hyper aware of his own nakedness and clinging to Keith as his body trembles without his permission. Instead, all Shiro can feel is grateful. He’s all too aware that without Keith’s help he might’ve died of hypothermia or suffered far worse than weakness and embarrassment. 

Not once does Keith rush Shiro, pushing for verbal confirmation that he’s okay when he’s so clearly not or trying to get him to move faster. Neither does he bring up carrying Shiro again and though Shiro has no doubt Keith could manage physically, he’s more grateful than he could ever put into words that Keith is patiently allowing him to keep the last shreds of his pride and walk himself there, even if it does take what feels like an hour to make it all the way to the bathroom since Shiro is too stubborn to admit how difficult it is.

It’s only when Keith turns the doorknob and pushes open the bathroom door that Shiro realizes that now that they’re here, he’s gonna have to stand alone to piss. He absolutely draws the line at asking for Keith to help hold him up while he does it. 

“Do you, uh, need helping?” Keith asks.

“No,” Shiro asserts, even though it’s so far from the fucking truth that it’s laughable. “I’m just a little sore, but I can handle this part.”

“Sure,” Keith hums, slipping out of the embrace. 

Instantly Shiro misses the warmth of Keith’s fingers against his skin, and his strength. Without the extra support he’s all too aware exactly how many muscles the human body requires to remain upright and walk, and every single one of Shiro’s is screaming at him that he’s being a stubborn idiot.

“I’ll just stay outside the door. Yell if you need help,” Keith says, leaning back against the edge of the kitchen counter and crossing his arms over his chest. It almost feels like the thinly veiled plot of one of the cheesy romance movies Shiro likes to watch on the Hallmark channel after having too much wine and Chinese food. Except this isn’t a movie, this is Shiro’s life, and there’s nothing cute about the hideous bruises that litter his body or the reality of a stranger having to stand close enough to hear you pee to make sure you don't collapse.

“I’ll be fine,” Shiro insists, with no idea whether or not it's actually true.

Shiro doesn’t know Keith enough to read his expression but the thinning of his lips definitely feels like he doesn’t believe Shiro. Not that Shiro can blame him, what with him standing there clutching a blanket to cover his bruised and battered body as he struggles to breathe. 

Thankfully he doesn’t push the issue, giving Shiro the freedom to go into the bathroom alone. He waits until he’s got the door shut to collapse again the wall, completely fucking exhausted and sore as shit. 

He fumbles his hand along the wall until he finds a light switch, mentally reminding himself to ask Keith how it is he’s got electricity and running water way out here when he’s not such a hot mess. His pain and need to pee are momentarily forgotten when the lights flicker on and Shiro gets a good look at the bathroom. He expected something poky—maybe an indoor port-a-potty type of thing. He didn’t expect _this_.

The bathroom looks like something out of the fancy home decorating magazines his mom loves to read—solid hand carved cabinets beneath an impressive stainless steel sink, a large mirror with an ornately carved wood frame inlaid with nature motifs like trees, leaves, and wolves. There’s even a full-size toilet, which for some reason shocks Shiro, who expected to have to take a piss in a bucket or something. The most surprising feature, though, is the massive fucking bathtub. At least he’s pretty sure it’s a bathtub. It looks like maybe it was once a horse trough or something, stainless steel also, at least seven feet long and deep enough Shiro could practically swim in it if he wanted. 

Unlike the rest of the cabin which is simple and basic, the bathroom is woodland luxury with thick towels hanging over a towel bar and a small fireplace in the corner currently not being used. The bathroom is enormous compared to the rest of the cabin and Shiro is so surprised he forgets why the hell he's even in there. At least until there’s a knock at the door that brings him right back to reality. 

“Everything okay in there?” Keith yells, voice filtering through the shut door.

Shiro exhales, unwilling to think too hard about the fact that Keith is obviously close enough that he knows Shiro hasn’t taken a piss yet. It’s kind of him to be so concerned but also awkward as fuck.

“I’m good,” Shiro yells, hoping his voice betrays none of his struggle as he shuffles closer to the toilet and pees. Once he’s relieved himself, he stumbles sideways to the sink, turning the faucet on and staring at his reflection as he waits for the water to warm.

Shiro looks like shit.

There are still little bits of broken leaves in his hair and smudges of dirt over his face, which looks like he got in a fight with a tree branch, little scrapes and cuts all over his face and neck. Then there’s his chest, which looks like someone took a baseball bat to it—his entire abdomen covered in nasty bruises that are starting to turn purple around the edges. Which makes sense, especially with the force of the air bags deploying when his Jeep crashed. It’s still jarring to look at, though, and no matter how shitty Shiro feels, it's another thing entirely to see how shitty he _looks_. 

All things considered the last thing Shiro should be concerned about is his looks—he’s alive and safe and grateful about it—but Shiro is still human and has always taken a little bit of pride in his appearance. It’s hard to look at himself and see _this_.

He must take too long staring at himself because suddenly the door is flying open, Keith and Kosmo standing in the doorway looking worried.

“Oh, you’re okay.”

“Um, yes,” Shiro blinks, once again very aware of his own nakedness.

“I called for you and you didn’t answer,” Keith says, shoving his hands into his pockets. There’s a nervous air about him now that he hasn’t had before. It makes Shiro feel like he should be comforting Keith, but at this point he’s not even sure he’s capable of comforting himself. 

“Sorry, I didn’t even hear you,” Shiro answers, though he refrains from mentioning that it was due to his own vanity. Partly because it's embarrassing and partly because it's surprisingly painful to talk too much.

“Oh,” Keith murmurs. Beside him Kosmo tries to shove his way into the bathroom but Keith blocks him with his leg, withdrawing one hand from his pocket to scratch between Kosmo’s ears. It seems to placate him as the wolf dog sits, eyes still riveted on Shiro.

Shiro swallows, eyes inexplicably drawn back to his own reflection. Keith and Kosmo are staring at him and he’s distinctly aware of what they see and it's not pretty.

No matter what type of silly fantasies Shiro might let himself entertain about this feeling like some sort of romance novel, the truth is, it's not. There’s nothing cute about Shiro right now or the way he was found, and Keith’s not standing there pining over the hot mess of a man he had to rescue from the woods. The odds of him being queer are slim to none and even if he was, Shiro’s not exactly putting his best foot forward right now. He looks hideous. He feels worse. 

“I’m dirty,” Shiro mutters. 

It seems like a stupid thing to say after nearly dying, but Shiro hates being dirty. He’s always been a two-shower-a-day man; one the second he wakes up in the morning to put his best foot forward and one before bed to wash away the sweat and dirt of the day and make sure his sheets don't get gross. No matter how tired Shiro is right now, and boy, is he fucking tired, the prospect of returning to bed caked in dirt and grime is horrifying. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t want to risk making anything worse cleaning you more than necessary and it felt like, well, something I should have permission to do.”

It’s sweet, and serves as a nice buffer to his rapidly rising anxiety. Keith is a good man; he’s not judging Shiro for being gross or a burden. Probably not anyway.

“Do you have a washcloth I could borrow?” Shiro asks, unsure if he can even bend down to clean his legs or lift his arms above his head but he’s desperate to try.

“You could have a bath.”

In his surprise, Shiro turns too quickly and a sharp wince escapes through gritted teeth. Without missing a beat, Keith’s across the room and helps him sit atop the closed toilet seat, grabbing a towel off the bar and draping it over Shiro. He’s not sure if it's for warmth or modesty but Shiro appreciates it either way.

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers, clutching at the towel and pretending his body isn’t starting to shake.

“I could run you a warm bath. Do you think you can get in?”

“Yes,” Shiro answers, prepared to die trying. The prospect of a bath is as daunting as it is alluring. He knows it’s not going to make the cuts or bruises disappear, or the soreness, but it would go a hell of a long way at making Shiro feel like an actual human being again.

Keith hums something, bending down and turning on the faucet.

The second Keith’s attention is elsewhere, Kosmo lets out a little whine and zips across the room, shoving his snout into Shiro’s knee and sniffing him. Shiro is careful not to make any sudden movements and risk startling him, as curious about Kosmo as Kosmo appears to be about him.

“You a good boy?” Shiro asks quietly, laying both his hands palm up over his knees so Kosmo can sniff them. His tail perks up at the words as he chuffs.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Keith says, back still to Shiro. “He’s naughty as fuck. He ate my favorite slippers last week.”

Kosmo lets out a pitiful whine as if he knows exactly what Keith is talking about, warm air puffing out of his snout as he licks at Shiro’s hand.

“I bet you’re still a good boy,” Shiro whispers, very carefully petting under his jaw.

Keith snorts, squirting in a generous amount of bubble bath. “So you’re a softie.” 

“Maybe,” Shiro concedes, suddenly too tired to say more. He hates how doing so little has taken so much out of him. With no intention of doing more than resting his eyes, Shiro lets his lids fall shut as Kosmo continues to lick his fingers.

Shiro must have dosed off because the next thing he knows there’s a warm hand cupping his jaw. “Shiro?”

“M’not sleeping,” he slurs, struggling to open his eyes.

“If you say so.” When Keith picks him up this time, he’s not close to hypothermic and nearly unconscious, so he’s acutely aware of how very strong Keith is as he bridal carries Shiro over to the bathtub. He removes his flannel shirt and pushes his thermal up to the elbows but he still gets pretty wet as he gently lowers Shiro into the tub.

The water is blissfully warm, enveloping his tired and achy body as thick bubbles that smell faintly of sandalwood bob at the surface and gather around his waist. It’s absolute heaven and Shiro forgets to be embarrassed that Keith had to carry him or bashful about a stranger sitting so close to his dick beneath the bubbly surface. He doesn’t even have enough energy to feel guilty that Keith’s a bit wet and soapy from helping him, which is saying something since Shiro always has enough headspace to find something to feel guilty about.

The most Shiro can do is lean back against the edge of the basin and exhale a full body sigh. Shiro half expects Keith to leave but he doesn't, crossing his legs and sitting on the floor beside Shiro.

It shocks him to realize how glad he is about it. He’s not sure he would’ve had it in him to admit he didn’t want to be alone. 

“This is nice,” Shiro murmurs, skimming the fingers of his left hand through the water and watching the bubbles skim across the surface. Back in Kansas, Shiro’s old apartment had a tiny bathtub that wasn't even big enough for Shiro to sit down in. Even his parent’s home doesn’t have a bathtub big enough for Shiro’s full six-foot-four frame. The novelty of being able to take an honest to god bubble bath is enough to make Shiro smile even as he wants to cry.

“I like baths,” Keith says. The confession is somehow unexpected, like everything else about Keith so far.

“It’s a good bathtub.”

This seems to please Keith, who pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “I’ll pass the message along to my pop. He just about had a heart attack when I showed him the tub and he had to help me figure out how to get it the four miles from the road to the cabin. I think he questioned my sanity for a little bit, but I figured why not.”

“Why not,” Shiro echoes, charmed by Keith’s words.

“I mean, listen. Kosmo is a big boy and he gets filthy. We use the river a lot in the summer but in the colder months he’s a big baby who whines if his paws get wet. Besides, a guy can like a bubble bath here and there without it being a big deal.” A bit of pink rises high on Keith’s cheeks and Shiro finds himself even more delighted.

He likes Keith.

“I haven’t had a bubble bath since I was a kid,” Shiro says, surprised to find that his own anxiety dwindles as he talks. It shouldn’t be easy to open up to someone he doesn’t know, especially while naked in their bathtub in the middle of the fucking woods after nearly dying. It feels like some sort of fairytale gone wrong, but Keith’s here, and he’s kind, and Shiro is fifteen hundred miles from home and somehow he doesn’t feel so alone.

“Don’t like them much?” Keith asks, periodically reaching over to stroke Kosmo’s fur, whether for Keith’s benefit or the wolf dog he’s not sure.

“No, I like them just fine. If I didn’t feel like I’d been run over by a bus this would feel like a luxury spa. But you know, like Kosmo, I’m kind of a big guy.”

“Oh,” Keith whistles, fighting back a grin. “Yeah, you’re a big boy alright.”

“You’re really fucking strong, by the way,” Shiro says, trying to change the subject before he embarrasses him again. He wants to look at Keith but he’s not sure that would help his nerves at all so instead he continues to stare at the surface of the water, playing with the bubbles. “Thanks by the way, for you know carrying me. Twice.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” Keith objects, scratching between Kosmo’s perked up ears.

Shiro swallows down the urge to object and focuses on the job at hand—cleaning himself.

As nice as just sitting in the warm water is, Shiro's afraid if he gets too comfortable he’ll either fall asleep in the water and need rescuing again or stay in so long he’ll get cold and the second scenario makes Shiro’s throat feel funny, too close to the recent trauma.

Keith leans back and opens up the cupboard under the sink, pulling out a washcloth and passing it to Shiro. “You need help washing?”

 _Yes_ Shiro thinks, as his mouth forms the word “No.”

“Do you want me to leave and give you some privacy?” 

“You’ll already seen it all,” Shiro laughs, then regrets it immediately as pain seizes in his chest. Talking is okay. Laughing is definitely not.

If Keith thinks anything he doesn’t say it, pointedly averting his gaze as he turns his head to the side. Shiro is glad. He feels pathetic enough as it is he’s not sure he could’ve handled being asked if he was okay.

“So what exactly happened out there?” Keith asks. “I mean, you don’t have to answer or tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Swerved my Jeep to avoid hitting a wolf that ran out into the middle of the road. I lost control of it pretty quickly, then boom.” Shiro exhales slowly, dragging the washcloth through the bubbles. “The Jeep hit a tree, airbags deployed and it went downhill from there. The details are kinda fuzzy. I just remember thinking I needed to keep moving and that I needed to find help. But I guess I was more shaken up from the crash than I realized because I fell down the side of the mountain.”

“Wait, then how did you end up at the river? My cabin is nearly five miles from the road. No one could do that hike after a car crash and falling down a mountain.”

“Let’s just say I’m stubborn and I have a high tolerance for pain,” Shiro says derisively, gritting his teeth hard as he closes his eyes and brings the washcloth up to scrub his face, unprepared for the amount of chest muscles it requires.

Keith lets out a low whistle. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Shiro drops his hand into the water and inadvertently splashes water over the side of the tub. There’s globs of soap left on his face but it hurts too much to find a way to rinse it off so he keeps his eyes shut, trying to blow the suds away.

“Yeah, you’re stubborn alright,” Keith snorts, voice suddenly closer. There’s the sound of the faucet turning on and then clean, warm water is being poured over his face.

Moisture pools at the corner of Shiro’s eyes and he’s grateful when Keith brings another cup of water up to rinse his face one more time, taking any evidence of his tears away.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Shiro whispers, blinking his eyes open to see Keith leaning over the edge of the tub.

“My pop had a pretty bad accident a few years ago. Nearly died. It was...it was pretty bad for a while. Everyone told him he was brave for fighting, for surviving. But you know what he said?”

“What?” Shiro asks, fluttering his eyelids to try and dislodge the water droplets clinging to the tips of his eyelashes.

“He said the bravest thing he did was let people help him after.”

The air is knocked from Shiro’s lungs as he closes his eyes, trying not to cry. Shiro is a caretaker. It’s his thing. It’s always been his thing. Even as a kid he was mature for his age, let in on adult conversations before his peers. He took care of his grandparents. He takes care of his parents. He takes care of his friends. He takes care of the wolves and animals other people won’t protect. 

Shiro takes care of people, not the other way around.

“Can I wash your hair?” Keith asks. 

Shiro’s voice wobbles as Keith cradles the back of his head and tips warm water over his scalp. “Okay.”

Letting Keith wash him isn’t exactly easy after that but it’s _easier_. Shiro keeps his eyes shut as he listens to Keith uncap the bottle, keeps them shut as strong fingers massage the shampoo into his scalp then rinse the suds away. Keith doesn’t stop there, prying the washcloth from Shiro’s death grip and using it to gently scrub away the dirt from the back of his neck and the slope of his shoulders. He’s methodical in washing Shiro, but unmistakably gentle too. 

It doesn’t feel brave to let someone else scrub his knees and feet, but Keith tells him it is once more and Shiro wants to believe him so desperately that he decides to do it. Keith says it's true, so maybe it is.

Keith periodically pauses to drain a little water, adding more hot water in its place to ensure the bath never gets cold. It’s a lot for Shiro to handle. Keith isn’t just doing the bare minimum to keep Shiro alive, he’s _taking care of him_. The breaking point for Shiro comes when Keith brings the warm, soapy washcloth up to clean the stump of Shiro’s right arm as tenderly as he has the rest of his body. Not being rough or touching it so lightly it's barely a touch at all. Just treating it the same as the rest of Shiro.

Shiro chokes out a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. Keith either doesn’t notice the tears or is gracious enough not to mention them. By the time Keith is finished the bubbles have all but disappeared and Shiro is a boneless lump. The slight awkwardness of the situation pales in comparison to how nice it feels to be clean and how dexterous and capable Keith’s hands are. 

There’s no question this time about whether Shiro needs help again. Keith drains the water, attentive to the bits of soap that linger on his skin and filling cups of clean water to rinse him before once again getting himself wet as he lifts Shiro out of the bath and helps him sit on the edge of the tub. Shiro doesn’t close his eyes when Keith drops to his knees and begins to dry Shiro with a tenderness that makes Shiro feel dizzy. He’s careful not to miss a spot, even more careful about not rubbing too hard over any of the most bruised and injured parts of Shiro’s body. 

“You’re so nice,” Shiro murmurs as Keith steps between the spread of his legs to towel dry his hair. He’s got a bird’s eye view of the way Keith’s thermal clings to the flat of his belly and the way his chest expands when he breathes. The words are easier to say because Shiro can’t see Keith’s face. 

“I’m really not that nice,” Keith snorts.

The strength in Keith’s fingers clear as he massages the towel against his wet hair. It feels fucking incredible and Shiro’s eyes nearly roll in the back of his head. 

“So nice,” Shiro repeats, words a little slurred as Keith tips Shiro’s forehead down against his belly. “Nicest person ever.”

“If you say so,” Keith says, belly quivering as he huffs out a soft laugh. 

The towel drags down the back of his neck, swiping over the rise of his shoulders and then down between his shoulder blades. He dries Shiro’s left arm first before moving to his right shoulder and the upper part of his bicep. Shiro’s pretty sure he’s drooling a little bit against Keith’s belly but he’s so relaxed and sleepy that the part of his brain that should be reminding him it’s probably rude to slobber on the pretty stranger who saved him is quiet. Instead, his brain is full of a funny white noise as he struggles to stay awake. 

“You still with me?” Keith asks, fingers smoothing through Shiro’s hair. 

It takes Shiro a good few seconds to realize Keith has finished drying him and that Shiro maybe possibly dozed off against Keith’s tummy. 

“Mhmm,” he grumbles, pulling away from Keith’s stomach. He tips his head up to find Keith watching him. He doesn’t look annoyed. If anything he looks concerned. 

“Do you think you can stay here for a few minutes while I change the sheets? Seems a pity to get you so clean and then put you back in a dirty bed.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Shiro says, ignoring the twinge of pain as he lifts his hand up to wipe the drool off his mouth. 

“Okay, good. Stay here,” Keith tells him, as if Shiro has anywhere to go or could move on his own. 

He watches Keith depart, Kosmo trotting along behind him. Keith leaves the bathroom door cracked, whether it’s so Keith can heat Shiro or vice versa he’s unsure. Either way Shiro takes the moment alone to try and regather his wits. Keith is being overwhelmingly kind and Shiro is the hot mess of a man who drooled on him. It doesn’t matter how nice it felt to have Keith’s fingers in his hair or how tenderly he washed and dried Shiro—he’s doing it to be nice and nothing more. Shiro needs to check his feelings before they spiral too far out of control. 

It’s normal to be affected. Keith is absolutely gorgeous and anyone with two brain cells would feel a little fluttery inside just from looking at him. Then there’s the fact that he’s so damn _strong_ , which is hot as hell. He’s also thoughtful and kind and it’s perfectly reasonable that Shiro might possibly feel the tendrils of a crush blooming. But just because it’s understandable doesn’t mean it’s acceptable. Keith has let Shiro into his home because he’s a good man. Shiro doesn’t need to make it weird by reading too much into Keith’s kindness because he’s feeling vulnerable and because Keith is exactly his type. 

This is Shiro’s problem and he needs his heart to calm the fuck down so he doesn’t make Keith uncomfortable.

When Keith returns a few minutes later, he’s changed out of his wet clothes and into something that makes it infinitely more difficult for Shiro to get his pulse under control. He’s wearing a pair of black and red flannel lounge pants and a thick, cream-colored sweater. His hair is still in a haphazard bun at the top of his head, which looks like he tried to fix but there are still stray bits sticking up in every direction and falling into his eyes. On his feet are thick woolen socks that match the sweater. Kosmo is noticeably absent from his side this time, leaving Shiro with nothing to stare at but Keith in his ridiculously cozy clothing.

“Hope you don’t mind but it seemed stupid to put on jeans again with the way it’s pissing down rain. Neither of us are going anywhere for awhile and I just figured, you know, might as well be comfortable.” He shrugs, the sweater slipping to the side and exposing the sharp line of a collarbone.

Shiro swallows around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. 

“You’re perfect,” Shiro croaks, heat rushing to his face. “I mean good. This is your house so you can wear anything you want, and, um, yeah.”

Keith’s lips thin as if he’s trying very hard not to smile. 

“I don’t suppose my clothes dried at all, did they?” Shiro asks, wishing he had something as cozy as what Keith is wearing. He’s not exactly looking forward to having to wear stiff jeans with as sore as he feels but he also would really rather not be naked any longer. 

“Oh, no,” Keith says, but before Shiro can deflate he strides forward and holds out something. “If you don’t mind wearing someone else’s.”

“I think your clothes would be a little small for my uh, you know, thighs. But it’s nice of you to offer.”

Keith’s lips quirk up in the corner, and though he politely keeps his gaze on Shiro’s face he is all too aware that Keith has seen _all_ of him, including his thighs, that would never in a million years fit in a pair of pants that fit Keith.

“They’re not my clothes.” For one stupidly long second Shiro imagines them belonging to a boyfriend. If Keith isn’t straight, that is. He has no right to feel jealous. He’s just met him. Still, a little bit of disappointment pools in his gut.

“Boyfriend?” Shiro asks, attempting to keep his tone as normal as possible.

The question seems to surprise Keith, who stops moving and simply stares at Shiro. Very slowly a smile creeps onto Keith’s face, something that makes Shiro momentarily forget how much everything hurts or that he’s naked and cold. Keith’s smile is fucking beautiful.

“No, Shiro. Not a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” He pauses to breathe before he speaks again. “You, uh, you got a girlfriend then?”

Keith shakes his head, dropping to his knees and holding open the waistband of what Shiro can now see is a pair of thick, grey sweats. “Girls aren’t really my type.”

Shiro clears his throat, lifting one foot into one of the pant legs and repressing a shiver as Keith’s fingers skim his ankles to tug the first leg up. “What is your type?”

“Big boys,” Keith deadpans.

Shiro’s precarious balance on the edge of the tub falters and it’s only Keith’s quick movements and the strong hands that find purchase on his hip that stop him from tipping backward into the now empty bathtub.

“Thanks.” Shiro’s glad he’s too embarrassed and in too much pain to get an erection right now from Keith’s proximity and the feeling of his calloused fingers against Shiro’s skin.

“Other foot,” Keith grins, apparently unfazed by Shiro being a complete disaster.

Not trusting himself to speak, Shiro merely nods and lifts his right food into the leg hole, grimacing at the amount of stomach muscles it takes to do so. He hisses when Keith’s rough fingers skim over the arch of his ankle bone, though for reasons entirely unrelated to pain. Keith’s not doing _anything_ except helping Shiro pull on some pants but there’s something intimate about the way it feels to brace his hand on Keith’s shoulder as he stands, even more so about the way it feels to have Keith pulling the pants up his hips.

“Perfect fit,” Keith says as he steps away from Shiro.

“They are, thanks. Whose are they?” Shiro asks, still curious.

“Oh, they’re my pop’s. We went camping a few weeks back and stopped off at my place to clean up before pop finished hiking back to my mom. He left his things here and I kept forgetting to bring them with me when I visited. But don’t worry, they’re clean. I washed them. There’s a shirt, too, but I left that in the closet. Wasn’t sure you’d be up to lifting your arms above your head, but if you’d be more comfortable I can get it for you.”

“I mean, as long as you don’t mind looking at me,” Shiro says in what he means to be a joking tone but it comes out sounding a little more pathetic as he looks down at the hideous bruises that cover his chest and stomach. “I think I’d rather move as little as humanly possible.”

“I definitely don’t mind looking at you.” There’s nothing flirty or salacious in the way he says it. There’s no pretense in the way Keith says anything, which somehow makes the words all the more affecting. When Keith smiles at him, Shiro wobbles as heat floods Shiro’s face.

“You should lay down,” Keith says, immediately moving back to Shiro’s side. “Just lean your weight on me, alright?”

Shiro hums his agreement, too tired to pretend he can manage on his own. He hates how tired he suddenly feels, exhausted from letting someone else give him a bath like a child. 

“How are you doing?” Keith asks as they shuffle sideways out of the bathroom.

“Fine,” Shiro lies, trying for a smile that feels a lot more like a grimace.

“Oh, my god, you’re one of those,” Keith snorts. “Let me guess, your enneagram type is a two.”

“Are you a mind reader?” Shiro asks, unsure how the hell Keith could know this.

“Oh, that’s a yes,” Keith laughs. “And not a mind reader. More like my mom is a sociologist who believes in the mind-body connection. I was unschooled so while kids my age were learning multiplication tables, my mom was teaching me about meditation and personality types. I mean, I learned multiplication too, but with sticks and rocks and dirt.”

“Wow.”

“Wow cool, or wow, you’re weird?” Keith asks, helping Shiro sit on the edge of the now freshly made bed. Shiro wishes he could pretend he doesn’t know why Keith asks but Shiro is all too aware of how a lot of people react to those who don’t fit into easy labels. It’s not hard to see that Keith doesn’t just defy molds, he makes his own.

“Wow cool, definitely.”

This time it’s Keith who blushes a little, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into the pocket of his pajama pants. Kosmo lifts his head from he’s dozing by the fireplace, but when he determines nothing interesting is happening he drops his head and closes his eyes again.

“What are you?” Shiro asks. “Enneagram type, I mean. Not that I know as much about them as you seem to.”

“I’m an eight,” Keith confides, puffing up the pillow for Shiro. At Shiro’s blank look he continues. “It’s, uh, the protective challenger. Mom says it makes me a good leader, which is probably why Kosmo thinks I’m part of his pack. Between you and me, though, it just means I’m not always great with people. I can be a little loud and stubborn and I’m not very good at admitting when I’m wrong. I’m not exactly a people person.” Keith breaks off, shrugging as he grabs the blankets and pulls them up to Shiro’s shoulders to tuck him in.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re great,” Shiro whispers, trying to keep his eyes open.

“Oh, my god,” Keith says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and shaking his head. Shiro doesn’t know what it means. “Just, just rest. We can worry about getting some food in you when you wake up.”

“Okay,” Shiro breathes. 

There’s more he wants to say and so many things he wants to ask Keith, but for now the lure of sleep is too strong to resist.

* * *

When Shiro wakes, the cabin is mostly dark aside from the soft light being cast off by the roaring fire in the fireplace. Outside the rain continues to fall, large droplets pounding against the window. Without any natural light it’s impossible for Shiro to tell how much time has passed and whether he’s been asleep for twenty minutes or a few hours. He’s a little groggy, but the exhaustion that was there when he last woke seems to have mostly gone. He’s also still sore as fuck, but he’s doesn’t feel as mentally shaky as he did before which is a welcome relief.

Aside from the sound of the rain against the roof, the cabin is quiet. The only other sounds are the fire crackling and the occasional sound of paper crinkling. Curious about the latter, Shiro grits his teeth and rolls onto his side to get a better look around. What he sees makes it hard to breathe for reasons unrelated to the soreness in his ribs. Keith is sitting in the middle of the sofa, long legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table. The firelight casts an angelic glow on his features and perched on the end of his nose are a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses. He’s still wearing the flannel pajama pants and sweater, though it's rolled up to his elbows now, revealing strong forearms covered in a dusting of dark hair. 

Keith looks like some kind of sexy-librarian-slash-mountain-man and Shiro is abashed by the realization that his dick is half hard. He is apparently very into the whole mountain man thing. Or maybe just very into Keith. 

If pressed, Shiro isn’t sure he would’ve had an opinion on glasses one way or the other (precluding his teenage crush on Harry Potter which Shiro has absolutely never mentioned to a living soul after the time his mom walked in on his reading Drarry porn instead of doing his high honors calculus homework) but something about the dark frames perched on the edge of his nose—his tongue between his teeth as he stares intently at his book—makes Shiro feel things. Things he hasn't felt in a very long time. For the last few years Shiro’s put his own personal life to the wayside in favor of dedicating his time and emotional energy to his work. It’s been a long time since Shiro had this kind of reaction to a man and the realization makes Shiro want to yank the blankets over his head to hide.

Given Keith’s early flirting, he’s not as worried about his feelings being unwanted and more just overwhelmed by the sheer force of his attraction to Keith. He hardly knows him, but there’s something about the other man that makes Shiro long to know more. He’s not just a pretty face—there’s an emotional depth and realness to Keith that feels _special_. Keith feels special.

And Shiro, well, he feels like he was trampled on by a dragon. It’s hard to grapple with his own attraction and burgeoning emotional interest in Keith when Shiro feels so vulnerable. Mid-thought he yawns, automatically beginning to stretch out the stiffness in his limbs but stopping just as quickly with an audible wince as he clutches his arms back to his sides. He might not be as sleepy but he’s definitely sore as fuck. 

“You’re awake,” Keith says, looking up from his book. He yanks the glasses off his face, folding them shut and setting them on the coffee table along with his book, bending the corner to mark his page before he shuts it. 

“You bend the corners of your books,” Shiro says before he can stop himself from making the observation out loud.

“Oh, yeah. I know I’m a heathen.” Keith laughs. “My mom has a heart attack every time she sees me do it. She says books deserve more respect than bent spines and dog- eared pages.”

“You love your books and aren’t afraid to leave your mark. I like it,” Shiro says, surprised by his own boldness. 

There’s something about Keith’s cabin that makes it feel as if they’ve been removed from time—the quaint almost fairy tale-like aspect of the hand carved furniture, the coziness of a fire during a storm, and the sight of Keith in flannel and knitwear. 

Shiro’s usual awkwardness with men he’s attracted to isn’t gone, but it’s not taking center stage. Keith was bold enough with his comment after the bath that Shiro has no doubt that at least physically he’s Keith’s type and while Shiro still feels like he’s finding his footing with Keith, he’s soothed by the knowledge that they’re on the same path. Maybe this won’t turn out to be anything, but Shiro wants to find out.

“Oh,” Keith exhales, a bit of pink rising high on his cheekbones. He shifts, sitting up straighter and leaning his elbows on his knees. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Shiro answers automatically.

It earns him a derisive snort. “Seriously. You fell down a mountain and you’re fine? I guess now I know why you were so far out in the woods alone. You’re secretly a superhero.”

There’s something so serious about the way he says it, as if it's a legitimate possibility, that a laugh rumbles out of Shiro’s chest before he can stop it, which is a problem because it turns out that laughing uses way too many chest muscles and hurts like hell. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth until the wave of pain passes.

Keith grimaces in sympathy. “Sorry.”

It’s entirely possible that the accident rattled Shiro’s brain. There’s no other excuse for what he says next.

“You should be. How dare you be kind and handsome _and_ funny. Simple guy like me doesn’t stand a chance.”

Keith lets out a low whistle. “You’re either a sweet talker who flirts with anyone or—”

“Or what?” Shiro prompts.

“I’m not sure. But I think I’d like to find out.”

Warmth spreads through Shiro. By all accounts he should be miserable and wallowing in self pity right now, but at the moment it’s hard to feel anything besides being grateful to be alive and lucky as hell about meeting Keith.

“So you've got to be starving by now,” Keith says, rising from the couch. It’s an abrupt change of conversation but not unwelcome. Keith’s right, Shiro is starving. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

“What time is it?” Shiro asks, struggling to sit up. 

In a flash Keith is across the room, tugging the blankets down and moving a hand to Shiro’s back to support the bulk of his weight. It doesn’t take away the pain in his ribs but it sure as hell helps.

“It’s past dinner.”

“Damn,” Shiro groans, steadying his breathing.

“I could bring you something to eat in bed if you’d be more comfortable staying here. I don’t want you to feel like you have to get up.”

“I’d really rather move,” Shiro says, managing to get himself out of the bed with no small amount of struggle and a fair bit of help from Keith.

“Okay, well, I can offer you the premiere dining seat in the kitchen. The chair is hard but comes with a front row view of me heating up leftovers. There’s the chair by the fireplace which comes with a snoring Kosmo, but between you and me I wouldn’t recommend it, he farts in his sleep. Then there’s the luxury seating,” Keith says, dramatically gesturing his arm towards the sofa. “Cushions for your ass and all. Built in footrest in the form of the coffee table too. Not to brag, but it’s basically the most comfortable couch in a five mile radius.”

“It’s probably the only couch in a five mile radius.”

“Well, yeah.” Keith laughs. 

If it didn’t hurt so much Shiro would laugh, too. Instead he merely grins, fingers wrapping around Keith’s forearm as Keith helps him stand up. “I think I’ll take the couch.”

“Yes, sir,” Keith says, pausing to look at Shiro. “Did you, uh, need the prosthetic back on?”

Shiro shakes his head. “I’m still a little sore. I think I’d rather not. If uh, you know, you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Keith assures him, looping an arm around Shiro’s waist from the right side. It feels purposeful, as if Keith wants Shiro to know he doesn’t mind the missing arm and walking him to the sofa. The urge to assert he doesn’t need help rises but Shiro bites it down, instead letting Keith help guide him down into the corner, hyper focused on the way Keith’s hands feel against his bare skin.

Once Keith’s got him situated he returns to the bed, yanking off the top two blankets and bringing them over to Shiro. The first he tucks around Shiro like a blanket cape and the second he drapes over his legs, going so far as to lift his legs and slip the blanket under his bare feet so his toes don’t go cold. For someone who has spent his life sure he didn’t like help, Shiro is finding it scarily easy to accept Keith’s. Not just accept, but relish in it. 

“Pain getting worse?” Keith asks suddenly, halfway to shoving one of the sofa cushions onto the coffee table under Shiro’s feet.

“Yeah,” Shiro nods, clenching his hand in the blanket.

“It’s been too long since your last dose of Advil, but I was worried about offering you more on an empty stomach. Hang on.” 

Keith shuffles his sock feet to the kitchen, rummaging around in the cupboards. Shiro can’t see what he's looking for without leaning over the side of the couch and that hurts too much to be worth assuaging his own curiosity so he settles for waiting. He gets his answer a minute later when Keith returns with an empty mason jar full of water, a stainless steel straw inside and a jar of almond butter. He opens his palm to reveal three brown pills, holding them out to Shiro who holds the almond butter between his knees before accepting them gratefully, plopping them in his mouth then gulping down half the water Keith holds out for him. 

“Thanks, I didn't realize I was so thirsty.”

“Always important to stay hydrated, especially after what you went through. Also, food.” Keith holds out a spoon and the jar. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s, um, a great dinner. Thank you.”

Keith’s eyebrows knit together as he looks down at the jar of almond butter. “This isn’t dinner. This is a _big boys need a lot of calories and the real food will take at least twenty or thirty minutes so I don’t want you to starve_ snack. Sorry it’s not more, well, snacky. I need to go into town soon. I'm running low on the extras.”

Shiro blanches with embarrassment, hugging the blanket tighter to himself. “Oh.”

“Just for the record though, it’s nice to know what a polite houseguest you are,” Keith says with thinned lips as if he’s trying very hard to repress his amusement.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Nope,” Keith says, lips pursing further as he untwists the jar and shoves the spoon into it. A small laugh bubbles out but he clamps his lips shut tightly as he holds the almond butter out to Shiro.

“Well, for the record, you’re a horrible liar.”

“Yeah, definitely. Never saw the point in lying. If people can’t handle your truths then they don’t deserve you. You know, or whatever,” Keith says with a shrug. “Sorry, that’s a lot. Like I said I’m not great with people. There's a reason I live in the middle of nowhere."

“You seem to be doing just fine to me. More than fine.”

“I’m not sure if you’re just being stupidly polite again or—”

“Or what?” Shiro asks, pulling the spoon out of the almond butter and shoving it in his mouth. 

“Or if you just mean the things you keep saying,” Keith says softly.

Shiro wishes very much he hadn’t filled his mouth with almond butter because it takes what feels like forever to swallow it. In the interim Keith stands before him, cupping the water and watching Shiro with wide eyes. 

It should be impossible to care so much about making sure he doesn't hurt someone he just met, but it feels like the most important thing Shiro’s ever done when he says his next words. “I mean the things I’m saying.”

“You’re insane,” Keith huffs, clapping a hand to his face.

“Some people have called me that, yeah. My mother called me a particularly focused and driven child,” Shiro grins, thinking back to his childhood. “I went through a ‘save the trees’ phase as a teen where I tried to protest my middle school’s excessive overuse of paper handouts by chaining myself to the front doors of the office and refusing to eat until they agreed to either cut down the unnecessary printing by fifty percent or switch to recycled paper.”

“What happened?” Keith asks, looking genuinely curious.

“I ended up in the hospital with dehydration and then I got suspended,” Shiro laughs. “I can be...a little intense. But I know what I like, and what I think is important. I won’t compromise on either.”

Keith lets out a low whistle. “You’re a charmer, Shiro.”

“That’s not usually most people’s response to that story.”

“Well, I’m not most people. Maybe environmental activism really gets me going.” Keith winks.

Seeing an opening, Shiro takes it. “If you like that, wait until I tell you about my real job.”

“Oh yeah, and what is that? I thought superheroes weren’t supposed to reveal their secret identities.”

Repressing a laugh is difficult but he manages, barely. “Damn, you caught me. Superhero by night and by day an endangered animal activist.”

“Wait, what?” 

“That’s where I was headed when I crashed, The Marmora Wolf Rescue. I work with endangered grey wolves. It’s kind of my life’s passion.”

“You were going to Marmora Wolf Rescue?” Keith gapes. 

“Yeah, do you know it?” Shiro asks, feeling silly for asking a question that seems so obvious. “I mean, you’ve got Kosmo and you live out here so you must know a little about it. It’s been here about fifteen years but it’s also pretty remote so—“ Shiro trails off unsure what to make of Keith’s expression.

“You’re the hotshot from the middle of Kansas?”

It’s Shiro’s turn to feel bewildered. “Uh, yeah. Maybe? I’m not sure about the hotshot part but I’m definitely from Kansas. Do you, uh, you know the Koganes by any chance? Mr. Kogane did my interviews over Skype. He’s got a wife and a son but—“ Shiro stops, his brain suddenly making a few connections. “Oh.”

“My mom and my pop started the rescue when I was six. Pop’s been making us crazy waiting for you to come, keeps saying he’s never seen anyone with so much natural drive to do good and intelligence. He’s turned down about two dozen applicants in the last few years. Mom and I have been trying to get him to take on help since the accident to lighten his load but he’s always refused until you.”

It’s Shiro’s turn to gape. In his silence, Keith continues to speak.

“That paper you sent in with your application was very impressive. I didn’t know it was possible to write an entire dissertation on the impact of globalization and climate change on the native grey wolf population but you proved me wrong.”

“You did not read my dissertation.” 

“Dog eared the pages and all,” Keith divulges, looking pleased with himself. “It was a damn good read too. Usually people talk about wolves like they’re something to fear or worse, to tame. You didn’t do that. You, uh...you didn’t just impress Pop.”

He’s sure he must be blushing worse than an overripe tomato and he wishes he could find something intelligent or funny to say but all he can do is stare. The way Mr. Kogane had talked about his son had given Shiro the impression of someone a little younger and more awkward and definitely a lot less sexy. He can’t believe mountain-man-slash- his-own-personal-hero Keith is also Mr. Kogane’s son, the person Shiro will be working with nearly every day for the foreseeable future.

It’s not just luck, it’s pure serendipity. 

“I’m confused, though,” Keith says, his nose scrunched up adorably. “I thought you said your name was Shiro. We’ve been waiting for—”

“Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro finishes. “It’s my full name. But uh, I prefer Shiro.”

“Okay. _Shiro_.”

The way Keith says it makes Shiro shiver. Without missing a beat Keith deposits the water on the coffee table and gets another blanket to cover Shiro with. He doesn’t bother saying he doesn’t need it. The extra blanket is a comforting weight on his legs, and Keith’s attention to his comfort is more than welcome.

“This is insane,” Keith mutters, almost as if talking to himself. “The way Pop talked you up I thought for sure you were too good to be real.”

“I’m very real. Got the bruises to prove it,” Shiro jokes.

“God, yeah. Speaking of, I know it’s going to be uncomfortable but you need to ice them. I just didn't want to do it while you were sleeping. You think you can handle it?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, pretty sure he might even try to walk across hot coals if Keith asked. 

It’s kind of embarrassing to realize the depth of his desire to impress Keith, but since the only one who gets to know the deepest workings of Shiro’s subconscious is Shiro himself, he can handle the feelings of mortification. Especially if they lead to Keith looking at him like he is now, as if he likes what he sees.

“Right, okay. Good. Stay here,” Keith tells him, as if Shiro would go anywhere else even if he could.

Keith returns a minute later with several ice packs that he carefully arranges on Shiro’s aching ribs. The cold hurts, but he bites back the wince, smiling at Keith as he jogs back to the kitchen with the promise of food.

Shiro sinks back into the cushions, tipping his head backwards to rest against the wall and closing his eyes as he tries to make sense of what's happening while also trying to ignore the bite of the cold on his chest. 

Flirting with Keith had been easy when there was no long term weight to it. If things turned sour, the odds of seeing Keith again were slim to none. That’s not the case any longer and the burden of that change hits Shiro harder than his Jeep struck a tree.

Suddenly everything feels different. Keith isn’t someone Shiro will remember with fondness, he’s someone that Shiro will have the chance to _know_ day in and day out, in a potentially deeply personal way. 

His few interactions with Mr. Kogane had solidified Shiro’s convictions that the Marmora Wolf Rescue was where Shiro was meant to be. He’d grown tired of the years spent behind a desk researching and fundraising. He wanted to be on the ground, supporting the cause firsthand. He’d researched centers all over the country but none had struck his heart like the Marmoa Wolf Rescue—a small family run operation that had been working for over a decade to rehabilitate injured wolves all while tirelessly working to protect their numbers in the wild.

Mr. Kogane had spoken about his wife and son with unmistakable reverence and pride. It’d been Shiro’s most fervent hope that they too might like Shiro as much as Mr. Kogane seemed to since it was clear that the Rescue was first and foremost about family. 

But this—the attraction and connection he feels to Keith—is so far beyond Shiro’s wildest dreams. Never in a million years had he expected to find someone like Keith in the wilds of the northern California redwoods.

Shiro is completely aware that he’s spiraling a little bit and potentially reading too much into things. Nearly dying sort of brings things into perspective and Shiro is hard pressed to deny that Keith’s showing up like a knight in shining armor to save Shiro is both a bit of a fantasy and an underscore of how deeply Shiro has been craving human contact and emotional intimacy. Not that Shiro can’t take care of himself just fine, his current near death experience notwithstanding. But he’s been self sufficient for a long time, and upon accepting this job in the middle of fucking nowhere he’d assumed the Kogane family and the wolves would be his only company and therefore shoved any potential thoughts of a love life firmly onto the back burner.

Now, he’s not so sure. He knows that while his accident might be amping up his desire for comfort and substantially increasing his awareness of his desire for companionship, he also knows that no brush with death can magically create an attraction like this, because fuck is Shiro attracted to Keith.

He likes the way he looks, likes the sweet pitch of his voice, and he likes the way it sounds when he laughs. A quick peek in the kitchen provides a perfect view of Keith’s ass in his flannel pants and the way his sweater skims his trim hips. Physically Keith is exactly Shiro’s type and more. Maybe he doesn’t know him well _yet_ but he’d like to. The only thing that remains to be seen is how Keith feels. 

For all Shiro knows, Keith flirting was a direct result of assuming he’d never see Shiro again. Maybe he’s not as excited as Shiro about realizing the man he rescued is his new coworker for the foreseeable future. Maybe— _bread_. Shiro smells bread. It interrupts every other thought in his brain. The scent of it floats through the cabin, filling it with a homey atmosphere and making Shiro's stomach growl.

“I heard that,” Keith yells from the kitchen. He turns to peer at Shiro over his shoulder, a wooden spoon held midair as he grins. It’s oddly domestic to see Keith all dressed in flannel and cooking for him. “It’s almost done, I promise.”

“No worries,” Shiro says, embarrassed when his stomach growls again. “I wish I could help. I feel weird just sitting here.”

“You’re a guest. You’re supposed to just sit there,” Keith says, stirring whatever it is he’s got cooking on the stove. Shiro’s not entirely sure what it is but it smells incredible. It makes him all too aware that his last meal—if you could even call it that—consisted of a two dollar bag of trail mix he bought at the gas station and a coffee. It was hardly filling but at the time Shiro had been too excited to try and make it to the Wolf Rescue before dark to care if he missed dinner. It’s been over twenty hours since then, though, and Shiro is all too aware of his own hunger.

Too tired and famished to make any more polite small talk, Shiro just watches Keith move around the kitchen. He pulls a tray of biscuits from the oven and the sight of the fluffy mounds of fresh baked carbs has Shiro’s stomach growling louder than ever. He knows Keith hears it because there’s a soft chuckle and he piles three biscuits onto a plate that Shiro really, really hopes will be his. 

Mid food assembly Keith sneaks back to Shiro to remove the ice packs, giving him far more praise than he deserves for simply laying there then moves back to the kitchen to finish dinner. 

“Do you like cheese?” Keith asks a moment later as he retrieves a glass container of what Shiro can only assume must be the cheese from the fridge. 

“Of course. Are there people who don’t?” Shiro asks.

The response earns him another laugh, and Shiro pockets the memory of the sound like a pirate hoarding treasure. “I’ve heard stories. Sounds fake though.”

Keith’s quiet after that, bustling around the kitchen as he serves up the food and puts it on a large tray. When he turns around—dinner finally visible—Shiro’s heart catches in his throat and his stomach rumbles loudly.

“Wow,” Shiro breathes when Keith sets the tray down on the coffee table. There are bowls filled with a thick chili, a plate piled high with fluffy biscuits, and little bowls of other chili toppings like diced onion and jalapenos. There’s even a little wooden bowl filled with softened butter for the biscuits. Beside the food are two steaming mugs of tea each with an honest to god cinnamon stick in them and a bowl of sugar with a funky sugar spoon that has a bear on the handle.

“Hope it’s okay,” Keith says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he perches himself precariously on the edge of the couch.

“I was just expecting like a cheese sandwich or something,” Shiro says softly, still unable to believe Keith went to so much trouble for _him_. 

“I mean, I can make you a cheese sandwich if you’d rather,” Keith says, misunderstanding.

“No. No. This is so much more than I was expecting. It’s incredible. Just...I didn’t expect you would be such a good cook.”

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” Keith’s lips twitch with amusement. “It’s just chili. I like to cook, and I’m not half bad if I do say so myself, but it’s just me most of the time so I usually freeze the leftovers. I hardly did anything tonight. I just defrosted the chili and whipped up a quick drop biscuit because you know, everything is better with bread.”

“Oh, my god, I love you,” Shiro blurts, face heating once the words are out. “Er, I mean—um. Bread. I love bread.”

“The way to your heart is through your stomach. I’m going to remember that,” Keith grins, clearly amused by Shiro’s outburst. “How about a biscuit first? You like butter?”

“I mean, I like butter a perfectly normal amount,” Shiro tries, voice cracking.

Keith huffs out a laugh, breaking a biscuit in half before slathering it with a generous amount of butter. The biscuit is still warm from the oven and as Keith spreads it, it begins to melt—the butter turning liquid as it melts down the side of the biscuit and drips onto Keith’s finger. He ignores it, setting the biscuit on top of a cloth napkin and passing it to Shiro who wastes no time in shoving at least half of it into his mouth in a massive bite. 

It’s impossible for Shiro to look away when Keith repeats the action and grabs another biscuit. He nearly chokes on his watching the way Keith’s strong fingers flex as he breaks it in half before he proceeds to add just as much gloriously rich and salty butter to it as the first.

“You can really eat, can’t you?”

“Sorry,” Shiro says, licking crumbs off his lips. 

“Don’t be. It’s, uh, it’s nice to see someone appreciate my cooking. I once caught Kosmo eating leaves so his judgement can’t be trusted, he’ll eat anything. And my parents are biased so, yeah.”

“It’s the most delicious biscuit I’ve ever had,” Shiro tells him, the compulsion to compliment Keith nearly overwhelming.

Keith is close enough for Shiro to be sure that it’s not just a play of light from the fire or the small lamp on the side table—Keith is definitely blushing. It makes Shiro want to compliment him even more.

“Your biscuits are really flaky,” he adds. All things considered it’s hardly the most eloquent or descriptive complement but to his surprise Keith blushes further.

“Thank you.” Keith tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear. He grabs another biscuit but this time he crumbles it over the top of his chili before adding a scoop of raw onions and enough jalapenos to send him to the moon.

“So you like things spicy?” Shiro asks, only belatedly realizing how laced with innuendo the question is. Before he can embarrass himself further, he shoves half a biscuit in his mouth just to shut himself up.

“If I’m gonna eat something spicy then I wanna feel it burn all the way down,” Keith says without missing a beat. “I like to feel things.”

For the second time in twenty four hours Shiro nearly dies, only this time it’s from choking. Keith’s eyes widen in alarm and Shiro sits up, wishing the earth would swallow him whole and put him out of his misery as he coughs hard enough to clear the biscuit out of his throat. It’s also loud enough to wake Kosmo who seems particularly unhappy about the weird high-pitched noise Shiro makes and begins to howl.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Keith asks, grabbing Shiro’s water and passing it to him.

“Unfortunately,” Shiro sighs, his ears burning.

While Shiro does his best to catch his breath and try not to cry from the mortifying shame of what he just did and the intense pain in his ribs from coughing up a chunk of a biscuit, Keith abandons his dinner in favor of crossing the room to soothe Kosmo. It takes a minute for Keith to get him to stop howling but once Shiro stops hacking up a lung, Kosmo returns to his spot in front of the fire and Keith returns to his spot on the couch by Shiro.

“You sure you’re okay?” Keith asks, this time sitting close enough that when he turns to face Shiro his knee presses into Shiro’s. There are layers of clothes and blankets between them but the contact is still electric. It’s probably indicative of how starved for affection Shiro is, or maybe it’s just part of nearly dying, but he wishes Keith would touch him more. Between his injuries and the fact that they just met it's unrealistic to even entertain the thought, but Shiro thinks it just the same.

“Yeah, just uh...swallowed wrong,” Shiro coughs, still sipping at his water. He’s not thirsty anymore but he needs something to do with his mouth.

“You want your chili?” Keith asks. Not trusting himself to actually speak, Shiro nods. “Any toppings?”

Shiro shakes his head, also not trusting himself to consume anything spicy around Keith. If he can choke on a biscuit he might actually die eating a pepper. Especially if Keith says anything else innuendo-laced, which is entirely possible. Shiro’s still unsure if Keith said what he said on purpose, but he figures he should be hypervigilant while eating near Keith from now on, just in case. 

They eat in silence after that, but there’s nothing awkward about it. It’s companionable and calm and Shiro appreciates that Keith doesn’t expect Shiro to make polite small talk since it's taking an embarrassing amount of concentration and effort to feed himself. Keith politely doesn’t mention it when Shiro dribbles chili on his chest, quietly passing Shiro a second cloth napkin, which Shiro puts over his chest like a goddamn bib. It’s a little embarrassing that he can’t even eat without getting it on himself, but then so is almost everything right now and he’d rather have a napkin bib than dribble chili down his chin.

It’s frustrating to have his hand shake as he brings the spoon to his mouth and to need to focus so hard on hand to mouth coordination. Objectively Shiro knows it's to be expected after the accident. He’s weak and his blood sugar is low, but it’s still annoying as fuck to barely be able to feed himself. 

The upside to all of it is that Keith’s chili tastes incredible. It’s about one hundred steps above the canned chili Shiro usually buys since he rarely bothers cooking for just himself. It’s a little smoky and sweet and deliciously rich. In between finishing the rest of his chili he eats three more biscuits, each with more butter than the last. By the time he’s scraping up the last bite of chili out of his bowl, he’s stuffed to the brim.

“You want seconds?” Keith asks, still working on his own bowl.

“My mouth does, but I’m pretty sure my stomach might explode if I tried to eat more.”

“Noted,” Keith says, taking Shiro’s empty chili bowl without being asked and replacing it with the mug of tea. “Try this. Not to brag, but well—actually yeah I’ll brag—the tea is fucking delicious. It’s also great for digestion.”

“So modest,” Shiro grins, wrapping his fingers around the ceramic mug. The first sip of tea has Shiro sighing in pleasure. It’s spicy and sweet and Keith is right—fucking delicious. “What kind of tea bag is this?”

“That’s not a tea bag,” Keith says, with the air of someone very scandalized. “It’s freshly sliced ginger, cloves, star anise, fennel, cinnamon sticks and wild honey.”

“I stand corrected,” Shiro says, hiding a smile behind his mug. Keith’s indignation is adorable. 

Keith blows a bit of hair out of his eyes, trading his unfinished bowl of chili for his tea. “It’s my mom’s recipe. She made it a lot for me growing up. It’s, uh, it’s comforting. Also it's a nice end to a heavy meal.”

“It is,” Shiro agrees. “Thank you, Keith.”

“So, uh...wolves huh?” Keith says, leaning sideways against the couch cushions and pulling his other leg up so he’s sitting cross-legged and facing Shiro. “I didn’t think they had wolves in Kansas.”

“The last grey wolf was spotted in Kansas in 1905, actually, so we don’t. But ever since I was a kid I was obsessed with them. My grandparents lived near Kings Canyon and every summer I’d visit them and spend weeks in the woods. My grandpa and I used to track wolves for fun. I think everyone thought I’d outgrow the obsession but the older I go the more determined I became to dedicate my life to try and protect them.”

Shiro pauses, sipping at his tea and watching Keith over the rim of his mug. 

“What about you?” he asks.

“Oh, I mean, I was pretty much raised on the wolf reserve. I don’t really know anything else. As a kid I was pretty sure I was part wolf. My parents said I was a bit of a wild child. They used to find me mostly naked trying to sneak into the wolf enclosures. I was convinced I could talk to them. Kinda silly I know, but I was an only child and the wolves were my friends. I dunno.”

“It’s amazing,” Shiro interrupts.

Keith’s eyes widen, mouth falling open on a little _O_ of surprise.

“You’re amazing,” Shiro adds, unable to help himself.

“Is this like a post death experience thing or are you always this earnest?” Keith asks, eyes focused on Shiro as he brings his tea up to his mouth. 

For a few seconds Shiro forgets that the polite thing to do is to answer the question, too distracted by the way Keith’s lips look wrapping around the edge of his mug and the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. His features are soft, but there’s a roughness there, too, from the scruff along his delicate jawline to his knobby scuffed up knuckles on his elegantly long fingers. Everything about Keith is a juxtaposition and Shiro likes it. He likes it so damn much.

Eventually Shiro does come back to his senses as he quietly says, “I think maybe I’m always like this.”

“Oh,” Keith breathes. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, hardly able to believe the way his life is currently unfolding. 

“Yeah,” Keith echoes, setting the mug down on the coffee table before turning his attention back on Shiro. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, studying Shiro with an intensity that makes him feel hot all over. Keith continues to stare as he inches closer, something in the air shifting as his knee presses into Shiro’s thigh and his face gets closer to Shiro’s.

“I’m glad you found me,” Shiro whispers, his heart thudding so loudly in his chest he’s certain Keith must be able to hear it.

“Me too, Shiro.” 

He’s close enough now that Shiro could reach out and touch his cheek if he were feeling brave enough. Before he can muster it up, the moment is ruined by Kosmo letting out a bark and jumping onto the couch—or more specifically Keith’s lap—leaving Shiro with a face full of dog fur.

“Kosmo,” Keith snorts. “What are you doing?”

Kosmo barks again, clambering up to try and get his entire massive body onto the couch and into Keith’s lap.

“This was cute when he was a puppy. Now he’s 110 pounds of dead weight but he still seems to think he can be a lapdog.” Keith pats Kosmo on the side. “You jealous, buddy?”

As if in answer, Kosmo whines, his tail thumping against Shiro’s leg. 

“Sorry, Shiro.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, spitting out a bit of dog fur. As disappointed as Shiro is by their moment being interrupted, he can’t say he blames Kosmo. If he was used to having all of Keith’s attention for himself and a stranger showed up out of nowhere and took it away, he’d probably be jealous too.

Eventually Kosmo does move, but only when Keith promises him food. After feeding Kosmo, Keith comes back to retrieve all the dishes, shaking his head when Shiro confesses to feeling guilty for not being able to help clean up. Keith tells him to rest, bustling back and forth to collect the dishes. While Keith cleans, Shiro closes his eyes and listens to the crackling of the fire and the soft sound of Keith humming. Outside the rain continues to beat against the windows, but the cold doesn't permeate the inside of the cabin, which remains toasty and warm.

Between the warmth that permeates the room and the ambient noises, Shiro drifts, eyelids fluttering shut and head lolling to the side. He’s not going to sleep, just resting. At least that’s what he tells himself.

It’s not until the blanket over his lap shifts that Shiro realizes he might’ve fallen asleep.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay, didn’t wanna sleep,” Shiro yawns, blinking open his eyes to find Keith hovering over him.

“You can if you want. You must be exhausted.”

“I didn’t do anything but sit here and eat,” Shiro protests. 

With Keith this close Shiro notices for the first time that there's a tiny freckle at the corner of Keith’s mouth and it makes his stomach flip flop. It’s not that Shiro’s a stranger to attraction, but usually it’s just that. Shiro’s self aware enough to admit that he’s picky, especially when it comes to men. He’d all but given up finding someone who was his type and might tolerate his passion for his job. Keith is both and while it’s way too soon to pretend it’s love at first sight, he also knows he hasn’t felt like this in a long time.

Shiro has a crush. An honest to god, heart in his throat and butterflies in his stomach crush on Keith.

“You’ve been through a lot. It’s okay to be tired just because,” Keith tells him, adjusting the blanket around Shiro’s shoulders. It does nothing to calm the racing of Shiro’s heart, especially since it brings Keith close enough that Shiro can smell the woodsy scent of his body wash and feel the warmth radiating off his body. It’s also an up close and personal view of the stubble on Keith’s jaw, which Shiro has the irrational urge to rub his face against.

Shiro feels like a teenager again, awkward and eager and desperate, and more than a little horny. He’s also exhausted and in too much pain for his dick to respond to his thoughts, which is probably a good thing since it at least spares Shiro the embarrassment of Keith potentially realizing Shiro’s got a boner. The only kind he’s got right now is a heart boner for the pretty man in front of him who is as kind and strong as he is beautiful.

“You need anything else?” Keith asks. 

“I’m good,” Shiro says, surprised at the truth of the words.

“Sorry I don’t have like a television or internet or anything to offer to entertain you. It’s impossible to get this far out and I’m not much for technology anyway.”

“I don’t mind,” Shiro tells him. “What do you usually do? For fun I mean.”

“Oh, uh, well, depends on the weather. When it’s not storming, I hike a lot. And I like to work with my hands so I do a lot of building and repairing stuff at the rescue center and if there’s nothing to fix, I’ll usually do some wood carving.”

“Did you make all those figures on the shelves, then?” Shiro asks.

“Mostly.” Keith nods. “The big wolf on the top of my Pop made me for my tenth birthday. That was the year I got my own knife and he taught me to carve. All the rest I made.”

“Did you make everything in here then?” 

“If it’s made of wood, then yeah. Pop helped when he wasn’t too busy with the rescue and my mom too on weekends. Took over a year to finish this place, but I liked the work. I think it came out pretty alright.”

“Are you kidding me? Alright? It's incredible,” Shiro says.

Keith laughs, a self-satisfied smile taking shape on his face. “Yeah, it is, right? I was trying for a little modesty but—” he breaks off with a shrug. “Seems kind of pointless to be modest if you know you’re good.” 

He says it so matter of fact, probably because it’s the truth. He’s not being cocky or boastful, just honest. Shiro likes it. He likes it a lot. Confidence suits Keith.

“Do you like to read too, or are those just for decoration?” Shiro asks, biting back a laugh at the little flicker of surprise that passes across Keith’s face.

“ _Decoration_ ,” he repeats, as if the idea is scandalous.

He looks so indignant that it’s hard for Shiro not to laugh out loud. It’s only the knowledge that doing so will cause him literal pain that allows him to repress his own amusement.

“It's a pretty impressive collection,” Shiro says, eyes roaming over the stuffed bookshelves. 

He recognizes some of the titles— _Howl’s Moving Castle, Redwall, A Wrinkle in Time, His Dark Materials_ and even the entire _Harry Potter_ series. There are plenty he doesn’t know either, each shelf jam-packed with books. It’s easy for Shiro to imagine Keith reading every one of them, curled up in the corner of his couch or sitting out front on the porch, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he soaks in every word. 

“I like books,” Keith says, something in his expression softening. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved growing up out here with my parents and the wolves but sometimes...sometimes it was lonely. There were no other kids my age, you know? Reading was just always there. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I'm probably not making a lot of sense.”

“You’re making perfect sense,” Shiro tells him, thinking back to his own childhood and all the weekends he spent hidden away in a blanket fort in his room devouring _Harry Potter_ and imagining a world where the things that made him different might also make him special. Imagining a world where good always won out over evil and where friendship was enough to save the day. 

“I grew up in a small town in Kansas and the people are amazing. Don’t get me wrong. I love my hometown and there are a lot of good people there, but there’s not a lot of diversity. I was the only Asian kid in the entire town and the only gay one. Sometimes I felt like an alien, like there was no one else in the whole world like me. But with books...I could enter other worlds where being different made you special, or where I wasn’t the only person like me.”

“Books make you feel a little less alone,” Keith breathes. His gaze is soft as he stares at Shiro, studying him. It’s hard for Shiro to put into words what has changed but he knows something between them has shifted. He’s just not sure what it means yet.

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, desperately wishing he could reach out and touch Keith. 

“Do you want something to read?” Keith asks, shifting on the sofa to bring himself a few inches closer to Shiro. 

The idea of getting lost in a book and not thinking about his pain or overthinking what might be happening with Keith for a little while sounds like heaven. It also sounds like work. As much as Shiro hates to admit it, his arm is tired from feeding himself and his eyes are starting to feel heavy. He’s not sure he has the energy to sit and focus on reading.

“You don’t have to if you’re not in the mood,” Keith adds, misinterpreting Shiro’s hesitation.

“It’s not that,” Shiro says with a sigh. At this point Keith already rescued him from the river, tended his wounds and had to bathe and cook for him. Admitting he’s too tired and sore to read is hardly the most exposing thing Shiro’s had happen in the last twenty-four hours.

“What is it, then?” Keith asks, knee bumping up against Shiro’s side. There’s a genuine curiosity in his tone as if he actually cares. It makes it easier for Shiro to get the words out, a stark contrast to Shiro’s usual tendency to rail against ever voicing any weaknesses out loud. Something about Keith makes it feel a little less scary to be so vulnerable. 

“I’m just a little tired and sore,” Shiro says. It’s a vague answer but it’s more than Shiro would’ve given most people.

“Is that all,” Keith says, as if it's not pathetic or silly. “I could read to you.”

“Oh,” Shiro murmurs, unsure what to do with the rush of emotions that assault him. He hasn’t had someone read to him since he was a child.

“Only if you want,” Keith adds. “Just an idea.”

“I’d love it,” Shiro blurts, left breathless by the sight of Keith’s responding smile.

“Oh, good. Good. Okay, what are you in the mood for? I’ve got a lot of memoirs and some contemporary fiction and magical realism and a lot of YA fantasy.”

“ _Harry Potter_ ,” Shiro says, blurting out the first book that comes to mind. It’s a childhood favorite and something he’s read enough times he knows he can listen to Keith without having to pay too much attention to the actual words.

“Oh, a Potterhead,” Keith whistles. “You’re just full of surprises huh? Let me guess, you’re a Hufflepuff.”

Shiro can’t contain his laugh this time, winching at the sharp twinge of pain in his ribs. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You just kind of ooze that good boy, helpful and accepting vibe. Kind of like Cedric.”

“Do I now?” Shiro grins.

“Definitely.” Keith smirks. “You’d probably have been a prefect too. Maybe even head boy.”

Shiro thinks about the head boy pin his mom got him for Christmas when he was eighteen, tucked away in a box in his parents’ attic now with the rest of his teenage possessions he’d been too sentimental to ever part with. “Maybe.”

“Ha, I knew it,” Keith crows, clearly pleased with himself. 

“What about you? What’s your house? Wait, let me guess—” Shiro pauses, thinking about all the things he knows about Keith so far—stubborn, brash, bold and brave. “Gryffindor.”

“What gave it away? Was it all the red?” he asks, pulling at his bright red flannel pants.

Shiro’s heart twinges. God, he’s so fucking cute. “It was more the selfless saving people thing,” Shiro says.

“Oh. Anyone would’ve done that.” Keith shrugs. Shiro is absolutely sure that anyone would not drag an unconscious man out of a river, give him his only bed, bathe and care for him and not even want a thank you in return, but he doesn’t say it. “So which book?”

“Surprise me,” Shiro tells him. “I’ve read them all enough times you could pick up in the middle of any one of them and I could follow along.”

“A man who likes surprises. I approve.” Keith grins, hopping up off the couch and padding over to the bookshelf. He squats down low, the flannel pants pulling taut over his ass. When he tilts forward to skim his fingers over the spines, his sweater lifts up to reveal a line of tan skin at his lower back. He’s unfairly attractive. 

“Guess which one,” Keith says, book behind his back as he strides towards the couch. His excitement over something so simple is infectious, and Shiro’s fatigue and unease fades away in the face of Keith’s smile.

“Um… _Sorcerer’s Stone_?”

Keith shakes his head. “Try again. This one is my favorite.”

It feels a bit like a test, and Shiro desperately wants to pass. “ _Prisoner of Azkaban_?”

“Damnit, how’d you know?” Keith laughs, pulling the book from behind his back. The book jacket is well worn and ripped at the corners, the spine warped from being read many times and as Keith sets the book in his lap Shiro can see the ripple of dog-eared pages inside.

“It’s a bit worn,” Keith says, fidgeting with the ripped edge when he catches Shiro staring. “I know, I ruin books.”

“You love them,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s eyes dart up from the cover of the book to Shiro, an expression on his face that Shiro isn’t quite sure what to do with. Again something is changing between them, shifting. Shiro’s just not sure where it’s leading yet.

There’s something in the way Keith cradles the pages of a favorite book between his hands that makes Shiro wonder how he’d touch him—gentle, worshipful, kind.

“Most people would probably be a little upset being shut up in a cabin because of a storm with someone they don’t know after nearly dying, with nothing to do but read.”

“I’m not most people,” Shiro says, wishing Keith were close enough to touch. He’s not sure if the touch would be welcome but there’s an itch inside of him to get closer, to trace the calloused ridges of his knuckles and count the freckles near his eyes. He wants to find out what makes Keith smile and laugh—he wants to _know_ him. 

“Just don’t expect me to, like, act out the parts or do a British accent, okay?” Keith says, flipping the book open to the first chapter.

“However you do it will be perfect,” Shiro tells him, tipping his head back to rest it against the back of the couch, eyes on Keith who groans, lifting the open book to cover his face.

“Oh, my god, you’re doing it again.”

“Should I stop?” Shiro asks, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

Keith lowers the book just enough to peer over the top and shakes his head. “No,” he answers softly. “Don’t stop.”

“Okay.”

Keith makes a soft huffing sound, dropping the book back to his lap. There’s a noticeable pink flush on his face and he steals a few glances at Shiro before he begins to read. Unsurprisingly, Keith’s an excellent reader. True to his word he doesn’t do a fake British accent or act out the scenes, but he’s got excellent vocal pacing and it’s clear when he’s excited about a scene, the pitch of his voice picking up a notch. 

By the time he’s getting to the part in the book where Harry thinks he sees a Grim, Shiro’s eyes are drooping and his body is going lax. 

“Should I stop?” Keith asks, pausing mid-word.

“No,” Shiro answers immediately. “Not going to sleep. Just resting my eyes.”

There’s a little hum of agreement from Keith before he continues on, an unmistakable twang in his voice when he gets to Stan Shunpike’s part. Shiro doesn’t mention it, afraid Keith might stop if he does.

Shiro still hurts like hell, but that pain takes a back seat to the joy of listening to Keith read. It’s clear in his intonation and the way he does a dramatic pause when he gets to a part he clearly finds exciting that he loves the book. It’s an unfettered kind of joy that buoys Shiro’s spirit.

The longer Keith reads, the more pervasive the heaviness in Shiro’s body becomes. He holds on to the last vestiges of wakefulness for as long as he can, enjoying the soothing sounds of Keith’s voice and the familiar story. For the first time since his Jeep crashed he actually feels relaxed. 

The last thing he’s aware of is Keith’s voice going hushes as the Dementors enter the Hogwarts Express before he slips into dreamland.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro blinks his eyes open to find the cabin bathed in darkness, body and mind still heavy with the lingering weight of sleep as his eyes adjust to the lack of light. The only source of illumination in the room is the soft glow cast by the dying embers of the last of the fire.

Outside the cabin, rain thunders down on the rooftop as a burst of lightning momentarily lights up the cabin. It’s only a flash but it’s just enough for Shiro to catch sight of Keith across the room, standing in front of his dresser. The light’s gone too quick for Shiro to make out what he’s doing, but his curiosity is definitely piqued. 

“Keith?”

A drawer slams shut followed by soft cursing. 

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Keith says, followed by the sound of shuffling feet and then jangling metal before Keith stabs something at the logs of wood. The embers crackle and spark a vibrant orange as a bit of paper is thrown in. In the blaze of firelight that follows, Shiro can see Keith’s hunched form in front of the fireplace as he adds another log. 

He ignores the twinge of pain as he shifts, angling to get a better look at Keith’s profile as he continues to jab at the dwindling fire until it’s blazing bright and warm. Keith lets out a hiss, dropping the poker onto the hearth and moving his hands in front of the fire and rubbing them together.

Cold, Shiro realizes.

_Keith is cold._

Shiro wants to kick himself. While he is warm and content, cocooned in Keith’s comfortable bed and buried beneath a mound of soft blankets, Keith’s been sleeping on the couch with nothing. Shiro turns his head toward the couch to double check and sure enough, there’s a couch cushion that looks like it must’ve been pummeled to submission on the end but no blankets in sight. None. 

Another glance at himself shows what looks to be every blanket Keith must own piled on top of Shiro which explains why he’s so comfortable and warm despite the fact that it’s objectively pretty damn cold in the cabin tonight..

“You’re cold,” Shiro says. It’s not a question.

“I’m fine,” Keith says, like a big, fat liar as he quietly hisses again, putting his hands so close to the fire he’s at risk of burning his skin off.

“You know being self-sacrificing is one of the worst traits of Gryffindor,” Shiro tries. It earns him a derisive snort. 

“Look, I’m fine. I can handle a little cold.” He stands, though whether it's to stare at Shiro in what he clearly thinks is a defiant gaze or if the goal is warming his ass with the fire, Shiro’s not sure. Either way Keith’s expression is something more like that of a feisty racoon than anything truly menacing.

“Just get in bed with me.”

Keith makes a funny noise, his tension visible in the light of the blazing fire. “I can’t.”

It’s not a _no_.

“Oh, did you forget how to walk while I was sleeping? Should I get out of bed and carry you this time?” It’s mostly an empty threat since they both know Shiro’s still too weak to even go take a piss alone but the intent is there just the same. If Shiro wasn’t so sore he would get up and put Keith in bed if he had to.

“You couldn’t,” Keith says so flippantly Shiro finds himself throwing the covers off and ignoring the searing pain in his ribs as he sits up. No one tells him what he can and can’t do.

“Oh, my god, you’re insufferable. You’re like the worst patient ever,” Keith yells, sprinting across the room. “Get the fuck back in bed. Do you know how much work it was to save you? I will not let your own stubbornness undo all my hard work.”

“I could carry you if I had to,” Shiro grits out, allowing Keith to manhandle him back under the covers.

“Okay, okay, fine. You could carry me,” Keith grumbles, tucking the covers up under Shiro’s chin. “But _don’t_. Not unless you actually want me to have to call search and rescue and have them helicopter you out of the woods.”

“Fine,” Shiro agrees, only because Keith is now this much closer to him and even if his ribs now hurt bad enough he could cry, Keith is closer to the bed which means Shiro is currently winning. 

“Okay, good,” Keith says, in a tone that says very clearly he thinks he’s won.

Before Keith can turn back to the fire, Shiro sneaks his left hand out from beneath his mound of blankets and reaches for Keith, encircling his fingers around Keith’s delicate wrist. When Keith doesn’t pull away he tightens the hold just enough that the pads of his fingers press against Keith’s pulse point.

“Will you sleep with me?” 

It’s impossible to tell in the dim light if Keith is blushing, but beneath Shiro’s fingertips his pulse changes into something swift and erratic. It’s unmistakably because of Shiro.

“Bold. I’ve never been asked to bed before a first date,” Keith says, and through the bravado of his words Shiro detects a tremble in the pitch of his voice, a hint of insecurity that makes fondness well up in Shiro.

“Not like _that_ ,” Shiro huffs, glad it’s too dark for Keith to see the way his face flushes. “Just to sleep. I’d feel better if you were in the bed with me and not freezing your ass off on the couch. Please.”

Keith makes an indiscernible sound not unlike a wheeze. He doesn’t answer immediately but Shiro waits patiently until he does. “There’s no room for me.” Again, it's not a no.

“You’re small, you won’t take up much room,” Shiro tries.

This has the opposite of the desired effect as Keith wheezes in an entirely different way. 

“I’m not small,” Keith chokes out indignantly. “You’re just the size of a bear.”

“I’m not the size of a bear,” Shiro says, his cheeks heating this time as Keith’s previous words come back to him— _Big Boy_. 

Keith likes big boys.

“Okay, maybe I am,” he mumbles. “But you’ll still fit. I could sleep on top of the blankets if you’d feel better having a little separation between us or—”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

_Oh._

Of all the reasons Shiro might entertain about why Keith hesitates to share a bed with him, somehow this wasn’t one of them. Again Keith proves himself to be unfailingly sweet and selfless, his concern not for his own needs or comfort but Shiro’s.

“I’m a big boy, remember,” Shiro says, unable to believe what he’s saying. 

It works, though, because Keith inches forward, one knee on the edge of the mattress. “Are you sure?”

Shiro’s never been so sure of anything in his damn life. “Yes.”

Keith doesn’t ask again and when the bed dips with his weight, it takes all Shiro’s self control not to make a noise. Not from pain, but from longing. 

“Sorry,” Keith utters, climbing over Shiro as carefully as he can.

Shiro is aware of every inch of their bodies that don’t touch as Keith manages to climb over Shiro without jostling him and slip beneath the covers. He wedges himself in the corner, back rigid against the wall and head pillowed on his arm as he shivers, tugging the blankets up over his chin until all that’s visible is the tip of his nose and his big doe eyes.

“Better?” Shiro asks.

“Mmm,” Keith hums, still shaking. When he shifts, his foot brushes against Shiro’s and even with socks on it’s clear his toes are cold as ice.

“You know you could, uh, you could get closer,” Shiro whispers. 

“You’re so sore.”

Shiro licks his lips, learning to read between the lines of what Keith doesn’t say. “The edge of the bed is cold. It’s warmer right next to me. Bears put off a lot of heat, you know.”

Keith chokes out a laugh, and though only his eyes are visible Shiro is pretty sure he must be smiling. “That so?” he asks, voice garbled by the blankets he’s hiding under.

“Yeah. That’s so.” He can’t really believe he’s comparing himself to a bear right now but he’s willing to embarrass himself as much as it takes if it means Keith will get a little closer to share his warmth. 

“Okay,” Keith says softly.

For a second Shiro thinks he’s misheard him because Keith remains burrowed in the corner, but slowly he shifts. Just a few inches, but it's something. 

“Closer.”

There’s no hesitation this time as Keith wriggles sideways. It’s just another inch or so but it’s enough that the edge of his face now touches the pillow. Shiro wishes he weren’t so sore, wishes he could slide his arm out and invite Keith to sleep on his chest. As it is the most he can do is slip his fingers sideways, seeking out Keith’s hand beneath the blankets.

“Little closer,” Shiro murmurs.

Keith makes a soft little sound, shaking his head until the blanket slips away from his mouth. “If I get any closer I’ll be touching you.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Oh,” Keith breathes, sucking in a breath. Before Shiro can say anything else Keith’s moving again, closing the little space that remains between them until his body rests against Shiro’s from the top of Shiro’s shoulders down to his toes. “I’m cold, sorry.”

“I’m not,” Shiro says, turning his head to the side as his fingers brush along the flat of Keith’s palm. The touch is electric and Shiro wants to hold his hand so badly his chest aches with it, but he’s pushed so much already and—

“Is this okay?” Keith asks, slipping his hand down so that their hands are pressed palm to palm. It’s not holding hands, it’s something else, something that feels infinitely more intentional as Keith guides Shiro’s hand up with his own, pressed against his chest.

Keith is so close now his nose is almost touching Shiro’s, their breath mingling on the pillow. In the glow of the firelight, Keith looks angelic with his dark hair fanned out on the pillow and his eyes wide and guileless as he watches Shiro for his reaction. As if Shiro might say no.

“Yes,” Shiro answers.

The answering smile on Keith’s face is something small but precious, and Shiro’s heart thunders in his chest as Keith takes the last step and folds his fingers down to hold Shiro’s hand as his eyes flutter shut.

“Goodnight, Shiro,” he says, yawning as he gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Goodnight, Keith,” he answers, suddenly not tired at all.

It’s easy to spot the moment Keith falls asleep, his mouth falling open and the hand holding Shiro’s going lax. 

Slowly Shiro forces himself to relax too, relishing in the comfort of sharing a bed and the extra warmth Keith provides as his consciousness slips away.

* * *

It’s been years since Shiro shared a bed with anyone and he’s sure as hell has never shared a bed with someone he’s known for less than two days. It's an objective truth that sleeping with an almost stranger should be awkward, especially since the last person Shiro slept with was his ex-boyfriend who hogged all the covers and always turned off the fan Shiro used for white noise. 

Somehow, it’s not. This is at least partially because Keith doesn’t feel like a stranger. He feels like someone Shiro has known his entire life. Even still, it surprises Shiro how soundly he sleeps—a sharp contrast to the first night Keith found him after the accident where he was plagued by physical and emotional unease. 

This time Shiro wakes slowly, body heavy and sore but without the mental fog of the precious morning. Somehow despite the odds stacked against it, Shiro slept incredibly well. 

He’s so warm and comfortable buried under all of Keith’s blankets he doesn’t want to move, leaving his eyes firmly shut as his mind drifts more firmly into wakefulness. The more awake Shiro becomes the more aware he becomes that the reason for his warmth is not solely the blankets. 

“Keith,” Shiro murmurs.

Sure enough Keith is pressed upon against Shiro, his left arm wound around Shiro’s stomach just below his ribs and his leg tucked between Shiro’s. Not only that, but he’s shifted close enough that when Shiro turns his face to get a better look at Keith his nose brushes against Keith’s fringe and his lips slide against Keith’s forehead. Keith is so close his breath comes out in little puffs at the side of Shiro’s neck and his body occasionally twitches in his sleep. 

The weight around his middle is enough to remind him of how sore he still is, but also for how desperate for contact Shiro clearly is. Keith’s fingers are so warm, tucked under his side and the arm wrapped around his middle feels steady and safe. Shiro has no idea when he last woke up being held by someone and maybe it’s an only an accident that he is—Keith clearly moved over in his sleep—but it’s nice.

When Shiro tries to stretch his other leg out, his toes bump into something solid and warm and he lifts his head enough to see what’s blocking him at the end of the bed. Sure enough, Kosmo is sprawled out at the bottom with his top half wedged behind Keith near the wall. He hadn’t thought about it too much but it makes sense. There’s no dog bed in sight; Kosmo probably always sleeps with Keith.

Wolf dogs aren’t wolves, not entirely. But they hold a lot of the same traits and Shiro’s lifetime of research about them is enough for Shiro to know this is more than just convenience. Kosmo trusts Shiro. Maybe it’s an offshoot of how much Kosmo defers to Keith in lieu of having a pack, that he’s just feeding off of the fact that Keith clearly trusts Shiro, but it’s still incredible. 

Shiro huffs out a breath, surprised at the rush of emotions that assault him. He gets the feeling Keith and Kosmo don’t let just anyone into their bed (or home), that maybe this is something special, that they might think _Shiro_ is special. It’s a lot for Shiro to handle so early in the morning.

For a moment he thinks he’s got to be dreaming. He’s never done anything in his life to deserve waking up with the world’s sexiest man and a beautiful wolf dog in bed with him.

Kosmo wakes first, a soft chuff when he catches sight of Shiro watching him. To Shiro’s surprise, he licks Shiro’s hand and it takes everything in him not to cry as drool drips off his fingers. _Kosmo likes him._

As if in tune with Kosmo, Keith wakes a few seconds later, slowly blinking his eyes open. Shiro can see the moment Keith realizes he’s wrapped himself around Shiro. His eyes widen, splotches of red popping up on his cheeks.

“Hi,” Keith says, slowly extracting himself from Shiro before sitting up. 

He scrubs a hand over his face as he yawns, stretching his arms overhead and leaning back in a luxurious cat-like stretch that makes his sweater pull up, revealing the flat of Keith’s tummy and a barely-there glimpse of dark hair under his belly button. It’s enough to leave Shiro with an awkward morning boner and a fluttering in his chest. At the foot of the bed Kosmo watches them and even though Shiro knows logically that Kosmo can’t read his mind, he feels his cheeks heat at being caught staring.

“Morning,” Keith says, voice gravely with sleep.

Shiro swallows around the _morning_ that won’t quite pass his lips. He opens his mouth but words fail him again when Keith yanks the tie out of his hair to shake out his hair, waves of dark hair tumbling down around his shoulders with bits in the front sticking up in every direction. Shiro’s mouth goes dry when Keith tugs it all back up on top of his head in a haphazard bun again, long bits framing his delicate face. 

“Do you—” Keith starts, but his words are cut off when Kosmo barks. “Sorry, Kosmo’s gotta pee.”

Still unable to speak, Shiro can only nod and watch Keith with no small amount of longing and a fuck of arousal as he climbs off the bed and crosses the room. There’s something graceful to his movements and Shiro knows that no matter what happens later he’s always going to remember this moment in time—the quiet softness of the morning and Keith bathed in the glowing light of dawn.

Unaware he’s being watched, Keith slips his feet into the boots by the door and spares one last look at Shiro—and a small smile—before opening the door. Kosmo bounds out the door faster than the speed of light. Keith follows, shutting the door behind him swiftly as a few stray leaves blow in through the crack.

Shiro waits until he can no longer hear Keith’s voice through the door to yank the pillow out from under his head and cover his face, muffling a soft scream. It takes a few minutes and some very serious self-talk before Shiro manages to get his ridiculous heart under control _and_ talk his traitorous dick into submission. Once that’s done, he retrieves his prosthetic off the side table and slides it on, locking it into place. It takes about sixty seconds for the tech to fully power on, and Shiro waits for the moment the port at the base of his bicep begins to interface with the rest of the prosthetic, grinning as he’s able to move his metal fingers. It’s been nearly a year since he got the new prosthetic and the novelty of having it function so much like his flesh arm has not yet worn off.

Prosthetic now in place, Shiro hauls himself out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom to pee without help, though he does plop on the couch afterwards, glad Keith’s not there to see how out of breath he is from such a small thing. The bed is warmer and softer but Shiro’s never liked just laying around, so he stays on the couch despite his ass now being cold as ice. 

He’s all but dozed off against the cushions when the door swings open and slams into the wall, followed by Keith’s footfalls. Kosmo sprints in behind him, covering the floor in muddy footprints as he runs to his bowl in the corner and laps up water.

“Oh, you’re up,” Keith says, shaking leaves from his hair and kicking off his muddy boots by the door. 

“Had to pee,” Shiro admits, tugging the blanket he dragged off the bed around himself tighter. 

“I would’ve helped,” Keith says, looking genuinely put out. 

“Oh, I did alright. Still kind of feel like a dinosaur stomped on me but—“ Shiro shrugs. 

“You need more Advil,” Keith says, turning and moving to his little kitchen, immediately pulling down two coffee mugs and filling the kettle, before turning his attention back on Shiro. “You also need food. So tell me, Shiro, what kind of man are you? What do you like?”

Oh. He’s being rather blunt, but Shiro can’t say he minds. It’s refreshing really to have someone want to know. 

He plucks at the edge of the blanket, pulling on a loose string before he answers. “I mean, I guess it depends on who you ask. I’m reliable and hard-working and loyal. I guess I can be a little hyper-focused and stubborn, but I like to think I’m a good man, honest and trustworthy.”

Shiro pauses, taking a breath before continuing on. 

“As for what I like—or who—I think maybe it’s obvious. I like a man who isn’t ashamed of who he is or what he likes. I like a man who is kind and strong and does the right things.”

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise but Shiro doesn’t stop to question it, wanting to get the next bit out before he loses his nerve.

“I, uh, I like someone that can handle me—emotionally and physically. Which, uh, you definitely can. You’re so strong.” His voice cracks a little with the last sentence and his heart pounds in his chest like he’s just run a marathon. It’s both terrifying and thrilling to be so honest.

At this point, Keith’s ears are bright red and his hands are curled around the kitchen counter hard enough his knuckles have gone white. It’s not exactly the reaction Shiro was hoping for. 

“Keith—“

“Breakfast,” Keith gets out, still a bit flushed but smiling now. “I meant what kind of breakfast man are you. You know, bacon and eggs, or a coffee and toast kind of guy.”

“Oh, my god,” Shiro groans.

“It’s okay. It’s cute. You’re cute,” Keith tells him but Shiro isn’t listening. Instead he’s dragging the blanket with him as he rises from the couch, ignoring the aches in his body as he shuffles towards the front door. 

“What the—where are you going?” Keith asks, running over to stand between Shiro and the door. The look of confusion on his face would be funny if Shiro didn’t feel like his soul was leaving his body from embarrassment. 

“I need to go find another mountain to throw myself down.”

“Oh, my god,” Keith snorts. “You’re so dramatic.”

Shiro huffs, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders tighter and resisting the urge to pull it over his face and hide. “I mean, I think given the situation I’m displaying the perfect level of drama. You were asking me about _breakfast_ and I said, well—you know what I said.”

He hates the pathetic little whine that creeps into his voice at the last bit but there’s no taking it back once the words are out. It’s so monumentally unfair that Shiro is so smart and capable in all other aspects of his life and such a fucking disaster around men. He’s sore and hungry and he wants a hug, not necessarily in that order.

“You know, it seems a pity to go throw yourself down a mountain when I worked so hard to save you.”

“Are you trying to manipulate me?” Shiro asks.

“Depends,” Keith says with no discernable tone change. “Is it working?”

“Little bit,” Shiro confesses, somehow charmed.

“In that case, you should not throw yourself off a mountain. Think about me and how hard I worked to carry you home. You know, it’s a quarter mile from the river to my cabin and I carried you all the way. That’s how strong I am.” He puffs out his chest, flexing his muscles.

“Keith,” Shiro gasps, unsure if he wants to laugh or die from embarrassment.

“How am I doing?” Keith asks, his serious tone slipping as a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“Good,” Shiro laughs, unable to not find the humor in the situation with Keith being so over the top. 

“Good,” Keith echoes, clearly pleased with himself. He crosses his arms over his chest and grins in full now. “So, Shiro. You ready for breakfast?”

“I am hungry,” Shiro confesses, the grumbling in his stomach taking precedence over any lingering embarrassment. 

“Big breakfast for a big boy it is, then.”

Shiro’s fingers tighten in the blanket, wondering if his face goes as red as it feels. Keith just laughs, the sound loud and joyful as it echoes in the quiet morning air. Shiro doesn’t like being laughed at, but this isn’t that. Keith’s not laughing at him but _because_ of him. 

It’s not embarrassment that rises in Shiro from this, but pride. He likes being the source of Keith’s amusement. 

“Are you ever gonna get tired of teasing me?” Shiro asks, finding his lips curling up in a smile.

“Are you ever gonna stop being so adorable when you’re flustered?”

All this does is make Shiro’s cheeks flush further, which then makes Keith laugh more. It’s not discomfort though, it's something else—something joyful.

“Probably not,” Shiro answers, taking one step closer to Keith.

“Ditto then,” Keith says, pushing off the door and taking a step towards Shiro until he’s just a few inches from Shiro, tipping his head up to gaze at Shiro. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Shiro echoes, aware of every breath Keith takes and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The air between them is heavy with something as Keith licks his lips, hands reaching out to smooth over the blanket. His touch is tentative as he runs his palms down Shiro’s chest, the touch electric even through the thick blanket. 

“What are you doing?” Shiro asks.

“I don’t know,” Keith says softly. “Should I stop?”

“God, please don’t,” Shiro chokes.

Emboldened by Shiro’s words, Keith’s fingers slip beneath the fold of the blanket to make contact with his bare flesh. The touch is electric and the second his fingers skim over the bare skin of Shiro’s chest, his heart skips a beat. 

“Sorry, my fingers are cold,” Keith murmurs, but he doesn’t make a move to pull away for which Shiro is infinitely grateful. Now that Keith is touching him he would very much like him to never stop.

“I don’t mind,” Shiro says, almost afraid to talk and risk ruining the moment but determined to make sure Keith knows how welcome his touch is, frigid fingers and all.

Keith nods, slipping further beneath Shiro’s blanket cocoon so that the rest of his hand glides over Shiro’s chest, calloused fingers skimming over his sternum. He’s careful as he pushes the blanket back off Shiro’s left shoulder, his fingertips ghosting over the bruises that litter Shiro’s body and up across the hollow of his collarbone. They’re a nasty blue-ish brown now and Shiro frowns.

“They’re not pretty.”

“ _You’re_ pretty,” Keith counters with so much conviction Shiro doesn’t argue. He’s had men ogle before, call him sexy and thick and look at him like he was a piece of meat. He’s never had anyone call him _pretty_ before, though. It’s...nice. Everything about being with Keith is nice.

There’s just something about Keith that puts him at ease. As much as Shiro enjoys people, he’s more of an extroverted introvert and finds most small talk and social normalities performative and draining in long bursts. That’s not the case with Keith. There’s nothing exhausting about being with Keith. He’s funny and straightforward and undeniably real in a way that makes it almost scarily easy to be with him

Keith is quiet as he spreads his fingers wide, gentle as he lets his palm rest against Shiro’s chest. 

“Your heart is racing,” he says, such a casual but intimate observation. 

“I really like you,” Shiro finds himself saying, lifting his right hand to wrap metal fingers around Keith’s wrist, holding his hand in place. Maybe after embarrassing himself earlier he should be holding a little more back, but he finds he doesn’t quite want to. 

Shiro’s never been one to lie. He’s honest to a fault. But that doesn’t mean he tells people everything. There’s a lot Shiro keeps to himself—feelings that are too big and bold for other people to handle, the parts of himself that feel a little more difficult to like. It’s surprisingly easy to hide when no one bothers to ask. It’s never been about lying to other people, just withholding some of his truths.

That urge is missing, replaced by a devastating desire to be known—really known. 

“I like you too,” Keith whispers, inching himself so close to Shiro that their toes bump together. Keith’s got to really angle his neck back now to look up at Shiro, the sunlight streaming through the window making a rainbow appear on his face—a slash of color across his right cheek. 

He’s the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen. 

“Keith.”

“Yeah, Shiro?”

“I really want to kiss you.”

“No one is stopping you,” Keith says, smoothing his thumb over Shiro’s heart. It makes it skip a beat. Shiro wonders if Keith knows that’s for him.

“I, uh, I’m too sore to bend down,” Shiro blushes, cursing his injuries now more than ever. 

“Shit, yeah, sorry. Let me help,” Keith says, his hand gliding up Shiro’s chest and around to rest at the back of his neck as he rises all the way up into tiptoes. It’s up to Shiro, then, to tilt his face down just an inch or so, bringing their mouths together. 

Just like his hands, Keith’s lips are cold and a little chapped and Shiro delights in the soft exhale Keith makes as he deepens the kiss. 

Kosmo barks but both of them ignore him in favor of kissing. 

It’s been so long that Shiro almost forgot how much he loves this. There’s something electric about the intimacy of kissing—just lips touching, but so much intention in the action. Objectively Keith’s probably pretty inexperienced, a little over eager as he whimpers quietly, his chest bumping against Shiro’s while his hand slides up to find purchase in Shiro’s hair. What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in gusto, kissing Shiro with a sincerity that makes Shiro’s toes curl. Keith kisses Shiro like it’s a privilege, fingers sliding through his hair and down the back of his neck as he lets out soft little puffs of air into the kiss. 

They only stop when Kosmo begins to whine pathetically loud, howling loudly before bumping his head between their bodies. Keith huffs out a laugh, tucking a bit of loose hair behind his ear and giving Shiro a bashful grin. It’s a far cry from the confidence earlier, something shyly sweet in the way he draws his hand down Shiro’s neck to rest on his chest again. 

Clearly unhappy with the lack of attention Kosmo howls again, loud enough it’s impossible to ignore. 

“He acts like he hasn’t been fed in a month,” Keith laughs, hand still over Shiro’s heart. 

“Food is important,” Shiro says. It’s a rather stupid thing to say but he’s pretty sure kissing Keith broke his brain. 

“Mhmm,” Keith hums, reaching for the blanket that’s slipped down to Shiro’s elbows and pulling it up around his shoulder once more, tugging it securely around him and filling Shiro’s ribs with warmth. He turns his head quickly to kiss the top of Keith’s hand when he pulls the blanket up around Shiro’s neck. 

Keith inhales sharply, frozen in place. Shiro repeats the action, this time with a little more purpose as he bends his neck and kisses Keith’s knuckles. Keith’s entire face goes red, and this, too, Shiro adds to the growing list of things about Keith he likes. He suspects the list will get very long. 

“How long are you planning on taking care of me?” Shiro asks, the words whispered onto the back of Keith’s hand. 

“As long as you’ll let me,” Keith croaks.

Apparently fed up with the lack of attention and not being fed, Kosmo sprints across the room and wedges himself between Shiro and Keith. 

“Okay, okay, buddy. I get it,” Keith laughs, removing his hand from Shiro to drop it down and scratch Kosmo behind the ears. He pants, his tail wagging so hard it thunks Shiro in the leg. 

Keith steps back apologetically, shaking his head when Kosmo nudges Keith in the stomach with his snout to try and move him further from Shiro. “Sorry.”

“He’s probably not too happy to have me here,” Shiro laughs, waiting until Keith’s back is turned to touch his fingers to his mouth.

 _Keith just kissed him._ He feels seventeen all over again, giddy and full of excitement. If he didn’t hurt so bad, he thinks he’d have the urge to dance.

The euphoria lasts all through breakfast, during which Keith pauses his cooking when he catches Shiro staring to dash across the room and steal a kiss before running back. The sight of Keith scampering across the floor, eager to steal one more kiss, makes Shiro feel a little less ridiculous about his inability to stop smiling and the butterflies that have taken precedence in his stomach.

Breakfast is a simple affair, scrambled eggs and toast with almond butter and honey and more tea—this time with a chamomile base, and little bits of ginger and dried lemon peel floating in it. Keith offers to bring it all to the couch like he had dinner the night before but Shiro, both desperate for a change of scenery for his ass and eager to impress Keith, insists he can have his meal at the dining room table. The chairs are definitely not as comfortable as the couch, but Shiro doesn’t regret the choice because halfway through the meal Keith’s ankle bumps Shiro’s beneath the table and instead of pulling it back he leaves it there, smiling at Shiro over the rim of his mug of tea like the cat that ate the canary

Shiro tries to offer to help do the dishes but one arched eyebrow from Keith stops him. Instead he takes the Advil from Keith gratefully, downing eight ounces of water and shuffling back to the couch where he stretches out to rest his eyes as Keith cleans up from breakfast.

He’s startled a few moments later by the feeling of a tongue in his mouth. Except this one is decidedly not human and Shiro splutters, grabbing his chest and wincing in pain as he sits up too quickly to find Kosmo panting beside him. If wolf dogs could have a shit-eating grin, Kosmo would have one.

“Kosmo, no. We don’t lick guests' mouths,” Keith yells, looking horrified. “I’m sorry. He’s just, he likes you.”

The fluttery feeling in Shiro's chest which had subsided returns.

“Oh, I like you too, boy,” Shiro tells him, reaching out to scratch between his ears in the same way he’s seen Keith do half a dozen times. Kosmo chuffs happily, bumping his head into Shiro’s hand when he stops. “Oh, more scratches?”

“Careful, he likes attention. He might try to initiate you into our pack and then you’ll be stuck with us forever,” Keith jokes.

It doesn’t feel so much like a joke to Shiro.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Shiro says, hand running down the back of Kosmo’s head as he pets his neck.

It takes Shiro a second to realize the little chuffing sound he heard hasn’t come from Kosmo, but Keith. When he looks up, Keith’s eyes are wide and he looks to be holding his breath. “If you weren’t recovering from near death I just want you to know I’d be climbing you like a tree right now.”

Shiro’s hand stills on Kosmo’s head, mouth falling open as he blinks at Keith.

Keith, whose cheeks have gone a little pink and who definitely looks a little flushed, keeps talking. “You just...you show up out of nowhere looking like something Michelangelo carved out of marble, and I expected you to wake up and be some conceited asshole tourist who went hiking for his Instagram and got lost but instead you’re the passionate hotshot wolf expert my Pop’s been losing his shit over. And not just that but you’re just...nice. You’re, like, unreal levels of nice. And I like you so fucking much I feel insane and I tell myself I should calm down and not scare you away but then, _then_ —” Keith pauses inhaling sharply. “Then you have the fucking nerve to be good with my dog.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, heart racing.

“I need to go outside and chop some wood or something,” Keith grumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looks flustered as hell and it makes it easier for Shiro to say what he says next. 

“Can I watch?”

The hands at Keith’s face fall, curious eyes turning on Shiro. “You wanna watch?”

“God, yes,” Shiro answers, no longer concerned about sounding eager. 

“Okay,” Keith says, some of the agitated air about him fading away. “You’ll need to be warmer, though. The storm’s died down a bit and it’s more misting than raining but it’s cold as fuck outside. I could get you Pop’s sweatshirt and another blanket. Make you more tea.”

“Alright,” Shiro agrees, finding it easier and easier to let Keith take care of him. He’s also willing to wear and do anything for the chance to watch Keith cut firewood. 

Keith bustles around the room as he retrieves the sweatshirt from the closet, biting on his lip and definitely touching Shiro more than is necessary as he helps him into it. Not that Shiro is complaining. The brush of fingers over his biceps and down his sides feels so good that Shiro too wishes he could chop some wood to help release his own rapidly building sexual frustration. 

Once he’s got Shiro dressed and wrapped in two of the thickest blankets from the bed, Keith hurries to his closet, pulling out yet another flannel item, this time a thick fleece jacket with a black and red print that he pulls on over his sweater. He’s the sexiest mountain man Shiro’s ever seen and with every new piece of flannel Keith produces from his wardrobe, Shiro comes closer and closer to accepting he might have a flannel kink. Or a Keith kink.

Even though Shiro doesn’t technically need help getting outside, he doesn’t rebuff the offer, delighting in the way Keith presses up against him from hip to hip as he wraps an arm around Shiro’s middle and guides him outside.

“Holy fuck, it’s cold,” Shiro mutters when they step outside, earning him a chuckle from Keith.

“I did tell you. You wanna go back inside?” Keith asks.

“Nope,” Shiro answers, determined to have a front row view of Keith chopping wood even if it results in a case of hypothermia.

“Hey, would you look at that. I think it finally stopped raining,” Keith says, arm still wrapped around Shiro’s waist as his gaze roams over the forest. It’s still blanketed in a thick mist, the ground puddled with water and mud, droplets of water dripping out of the trees and off the slanted roof. Keith’s right, though, it’s not coming out of the sky. “You, uh, you might not be stuck here with me much longer if it stays clear. Once the mud dries up a bit should be safe enough to walk you up to the reserve. Get you your own bed and a checkup by an actual doctor.”

Disappointment floods Shiro at the idea of leaving here. He’s been so wrapped up in his affection for Keith it was easy to forget that the circumstances of his arrival were less than ideal and that Shiro is only staying here until it's safe for him to leave. 

“Oh, yeah,” Shiro mutters. He’s not ready to say goodbye to this place, unsure exactly what’s happening between him and Keith. 

Well, he thinks, he knows what’s happening and it involves a lot of kissing and as much touching as possible given Shiro’s current condition. What he’s not entirely sure about is what it means to Keith. 

“Let’s get you settled,” Keith says, taking his duties very seriously as he guides Shiro over to a rocking chair in the corner of the little porch, supporting the majority of Shiro’s weight as he helps him sit down. Once settled, Keith drags a small wooden bench from the opposite end of the porch over in front of Shiro for his feet, lifting his legs up and resting them on the bench. Then he runs back into the house, returning with a stainless steel tumbler of what Shiro knows to be more of his special tea. The tumbler is well worn, scratched up and covered in faded stickers—a little rainbow wolf howling to a crescent moon, the logo for the Marmora Wolf Rescue and a dancing hippo in a tutu. 

“A hippo, huh?” Shiro asks, twisting the tumbler around to get a better look at the happy little hippo, which appears to be doing some kind of ballet.

“I like hippos,” Keith says, shrugging in the way he does when he talks about himself. “It’s uh, from Fantasia. Was my favorite Disney movie as a kid. Mom says I was obsessed with the scene with the dancing hippos when I was little. I guess they used to put it on when I couldn’t sleep which was, you know—a lot. I was kind of a difficult kid, lots of nightmares.”

“I had to sleep with the light on until I was twelve,” Shiro offers. “I also still can’t sleep without a blanket covering my feet because I feel like something might come out from under my bed and touch me.”

“You know things can touch you even with a blanket,” Keith says seriously.

“I know,” Shiro groans, cupping his hands around the tumbler and relishing the warmth it radiates into his flesh hand. “Don’t ask me to be logical about my neurosis.” 

“Noted.” Keith grins, bracing one hand on each of the arms of the chair and rocking it forward as he leans down, bringing their faces together nose to nose. “You ready to watch me be very macho and chop some wood?”

Shiro clears his throat, doing his best to try and sound normal. He fails, his voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch as he croaks, “Yes.”

Keith barks out a laugh, resting all of his weight onto the arms of the chair to bring him just that little bit closer so that Shiro’s lips press against Keiths, the curve of his smile delightful as he slides his lips against Shiro’s.

“God,” Shiro groans when Keith pulls out of the kiss, unable to hold back his own little sigh of pleasure as he licks his lips.

“Wow, so you’re, like, really into the whole mountain man thing, huh?”

“More like I’m really into _you_ ,” Shiro tells him.

There’s a sharp inhale from Keith who surges forward, cupping Shiro’s hand in his face as he kisses him. It’s a quick kiss, but arousal and pleasure curl low in Shiro’s gut at the feel of Keith’s cold hands on his face, the taste of rain lingering in the air as Keith steals his breath away.

“You are fucking unreal,” Keith murmurs, smoothing one hand over the arch of Shiro’s cheekbone before pulling his hand away and stumbling backward. “I need to go do...something.”

“Something?” Shiro says, still a little dazed.

“Yeah. Need to get some energy out. Otherwise I’m going to be tempted to do something really inappropriate.”

Shiro exhales as his gaze sweeps down to Keith’s lower half, his own dick twitching at the realization that Keith’s half-hard in his sweats. _Oh._

“You could do anything you want to me,” Shiro says, surprised but not unhappy at his boldness.

Keith emits a strange sound, closing his eyes. “Shiro.”

“Sorry, too much?” Shiro lifts his tea and sips at it in the hopes it might quell the sudden rush of nerves.

“No,” Keith answers, opening his eyes. “Just...you’re recovering. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Truthfully Shiro would welcome a little pain if it meant Keith would touch him more, but he doesn’t say that out loud afraid it might really be too much.

“I trust you,” is what he says instead.

“You hardly know me.”

The wind whips across Shiro’s face, sending a chill through him as he whispers, “You saved me.”

“I’d do it again,” Keith says, features immediately turning to a frown. “Except...don’t do that again. Now that I found you I don’t really enjoy the prospect of seeing you get hurt again.”

“Is that like a concerned citizen thing, or uh…”

“Let’s just say I have a personal stake in your wellbeing.” Keith grins easy, shoving his hands in his pockets as the wind blows his hair across his face. He’s so very pretty and Shiro is falling hard and fast.

“You’re staring,” Keith observes, head cocked to the side.

“Should I stop?”

Keith shakes his head. “Look all you want, big guy.”

Shiro’s unprepared for those words and ends up missing his own mouth and dribbling hot tea down his chest. Thankfully he’s got two thick blankets wrapped around him so he doesn’t feel the heat of the liquid, but he does feel the burn of embarrassment as Keith grins knowingly.

Beside him Kosmo watches him and Shiro resists the urge to blush. There’s no way Kosmo knows what’s going on.

“It’s nothing,” Shiro mumbles to Kosmo—Keith just out of earshot—as he dabs away the tea. In the distance Keith picks up an axe and swings it through the air and Shiro nearly tips the tea again at the sight of Keith’s clear competence with sharp objects. “Keith’s just amazing.”

Kosmo’s ears poke up at that, likely tuned in to Keith’s name. It brings a smile to Shiro’s face despite his desire to crawl into a hole and hide at his inability to stop embarrassing himself.

“Yeah, buddy. I like Keith too. I like him a hell of a lot.” Kosmo chuffs, licking Shiro’s metal fingers and making Shiro’s smile grow. “I like you too, you know. You’re a good boy.”

He reaches out, stroking Kosmo’s fur back and petting the top of his head and down his neck. Kosmo pants, his tail wagging vigorously as Shiro repeats the action. Eventually Shiro’s arm gets sore from the strange angle and he sends Kosmo an apologetic look before pulling that arm beneath the blanket. To his surprise Kosmo doesn’t immediately depart, instead sprawling out on the front porch near Shiro’s feet, gaze on Keith.

“Oh, you’re staying with me,” Shiro says, unsure why that makes his chest feel funny. Kosmo yaps once, then drops his snout between his paws to watch Keith.

Shiro follows suit, sipping his tea much more carefully this time as he turns his attention on Keith. He’s situated himself about twenty feet from the bottom of the stairs, an axe in one hand and a massive pile of wood beside him. It’s mesmerizing to watch Keith pick through the pile. All the wood looks exactly the same to Shiro, but Keith doesn’t seem to think so, occasionally chucking some logs into a pile across from him while others get situated on a tree stump and chopped into smaller pieces, which Keith carefully stacks together. 

There's nothing inherently sexy about chopping wood, but there is something sexy about Keith doing it. His expression shifts into something fiercely focused as his pile of perfectly chopped wood grows. Halfway through the job he pauses, shedding his jacket and rolling the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows. Even at a distance Shiro can see the play of muscles and the strength in Keith’s body as his hands grip the axe, his body taut as he swings and brings it down with channeled force.

With every crack of wood, Shiro’s arousal grows, simmering within him like kindling thrown on a fire. It’s not just Keith who gets too warm, either. Fifteen minutes later Shiro sheds his own blankets, body beginning to overheat. Whether it’s from watching Keith or from the sun that’s popped through the clouds, he’s not sure. All he knows is that by the time Keith’s finished chopping wood and filling the opposite side of the patio with perfectly sized logs for the fire, Shiro’s pretty sure he’s having heart palpitations. Keith’s boots and the bottom half of his sweats are covered in mud, he’s dripping sweat, there are little leaves in his hair and his eyes are blown wide with pride at his own hard work. Shiro’s never seen anything sexier in his goddamn life.

“I’m dirty,” Keith says, half to himself as he drags the back of his forearm across his face to push away the sweaty bits of hair out of his eyes.

Shiro isn’t sure if Keith expects a response, and he’s too afraid of accidentally saying something embarrassing like _will you get me dirty too_ , so he settles for humming and pretending to drink the tea he finished a long time ago.

“I need to clean up. You wanna stay out with Kosmo or head back inside?”

The fresh air would probably do Shiro good, but the sun has disappeared again behind a swirl of dark clouds and the wind’s picked up, which makes it feel even colder than when they first came outside. As much as Shiro is enjoying the crispness in the air after being inside for so long, he also desperately wants to settle himself on a softer seat and possibly feel his toes again.

“Think I’ll come inside,” Shiro finally says, avoiding telling Keith just how cold he’s gotten. It’s his own fault for shedding his blankets in a haste and causing them to slip to the ground and then feeling too sore to bend in half and pick them up—also too proud to yell for Keith to come help him.

“Okay, sounds good. You too, boy,” Keith says to Kosmo, snapping his fingers. 

Kosmo’s up in a flash, rushing in front of Keith and nosing his way in the second Keith gets the door cracked. Shiro doesn’t bother hiding his grimace as his feet hit the floor. It’s a double-edged sword that his accident means he needs to rest but that so much sitting in one place makes him feel so crummy. Shiro’s not used to sitting. Even back in Kansas, he’d had a standing desk because he hated to sit so much.

“You alright?” Keith asks, steadying hands wrapping around his metal forearm and helping him stand.

“Oh uh, yeah,” Shiro breathes. “I didn’t realize you were still standing there.”

“Ah, you would’ve pretended you weren’t in pain if you had?” Keith asks knowingly.

“Maybe,” Shiro agrees, ducking his head. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud, though.”

“I think it sounds about as bad as it is,” Keith laughs. “But between you and me if the positions were reversed, I’d probably do the same. I once had pneumonia and tried to rebuild one of the kennels. Mom says I’m a stubborn asshole like Pop who doesn’t know what the term self-preservation means.”

“To team stubborn asshole.” Shiro laughs, holding his fist up as he shuffles into the cabin with Keith at his side.

“Well,” Keith huffs, kicking the door shut behind them, “I was going to ask where you wanted to rest but I see someone thinks the bed is theirs.”

Kosmo doesn’t seem abashed by Keith’s tone, flopping onto his back and sprawling out sideways so he takes up half the bed.

“That’s alright, the couch is perfect.”

“You want any help getting settled before I clean up?” Keith asks as he grabs the bottom of his sweater and lifts it to wipe the excess sweat from his face. It’s enough for Shiro to get a close and personal view with Keith’s tiny waist, flat tummy, and thick treasure trail. He also lifts it high enough for Shiro to see a bit of dark hair on his chest, which just about does Shiro in. 

Shiro’s always been a shave-it-off kind of guy when it comes to himself; not that there’s much to shave off, mostly he just prefers to keep his dick area well landscaped even if the only company it sees is his own hand most of the time. On his partner though, Shiro finds it sexy as fuck. Between the dusting of hair on Keith’s forearms and the chest and the lush treasure trail, Shiro can only imagine what lies below. Keith doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to manscape and the idea of what might lay in a tangle of thick, dark hair is enough to have Shiro’s heart racing and his dick taking notice.

“Shiro?” Keith prompts, a flicker of concern passing across his face.

Shiro clears his throat, trying to reign his thoughts back in. Keith is a goddamn thirst trap. He cannot let Keith touch him or help him lay on the couch even if he aches to have Keith’s hands on him, because there’s no way Shiro can hide a boner in his grey sweatpants. 

“Sorry, just got lost in thought. I’m good,” Shiro tells him, plastering a smile on his face. “You go clean up. I’ll just wait here. You know, obviously since I can’t go anywhere.”

Keith chuckles, inching his way backward. “You’re cute.”

“You too,” Shiro says, heart thudding in his chest.

The answering grin from Keith sends pleasure rushing through Shiro’s veins as Keith walks backward, his gaze on Shiro until he’s in the bathroom with the door shut. 

Shiro exhales a shuddering breath, scrubbing his hand over his face as he drops down onto the couch far too quickly. It sends a wave of pain through him. As unwelcome as it is, the one upside is it’s bad enough to derail Shiro off the horny train and back into reality. It’s a harsh transition. Shiro breathes through gritted teeth as he shoves a cushion under his head and stretches out on the couch. After a few minutes, the pain dulls into a manageable unease and Shiro finds himself drifting, body heavy and sleepy now that he’s more comfortable.

Lulled by the distant sounds of the water running, Shiro falls into a light sleep, his last thought that of Keith.

* * *

It’s not until he hears feet pattering across the wood floor that he cracks his eyes open, breath catching in his throat at what he sees.

Keith’s standing in front of his dresser wearing nothing but a thick, white towel wrapped securely around his tiny waist and sitting so low on his hips that Shiro now possesses the knowledge that Keith has _lower back dimples_. His hair is still damp, hanging down just past his shoulders and sending tiny rivulets of water dripping down the line of his muscular back. He bends over, pulling on a pair of woolen socks, and when he rights himself, the towel slips just that little bit lower to reveal the top curve of his ass and the tiniest sliver of the crack between his ass cheeks.

Shiro is very fucking awake now.

As if aware of being watched, Keith turns and then Shiro’s _really_ done for. If the view from behind was nice, it’s nothing compared to the view from the front.

The towel is so low on Keith’s hips Shiro can see the jut of his hip bones and tiny clusters of freckles above them. He can see the way Keith’s tummy shifts when he breathes and the fact that the lower the treasure trail goes the thicker the hair gets, revealing a patch of curls. The knowledge that Keith’s dick lies just an inch or so beneath it makes Shiro’s dick swell as his eyes roam upwards to take in the breadth of Keith’s chest and the dark hair that’s dotted in droplets of water from the shower.

His hair is still damp at the ends, tumbling down around his collarbone and framing his face. By some impossibility that defies the law of physics, the cute little sprout of hair at the back of his head still sticks straight up.

Shiro is staring. He knows it and Keith knows it too, if the quirk of his lips as he pulls his hair back is any indication. 

Keith’s definitely trying to kill him. He pulls his arms over his head, his grin growing as he twists his hair into a haphazard bun, the towel slipping so low now that Shiro is positive it must be magic keeping that thing up.

It’s not the only thing that’s up either, something Shiro is very aware of as Keith’s gaze drifts lower. Shiro feels a little like a deer caught in headlights as Keith’s gaze hones in on his lower half and he realizes that his sweats are substantially tented, his dick fully erect now.

“Is that because of me?” Keith asks, eyes wide and focused as he takes a step closer. There’s nothing salacious in his tone, more curiosity and awe than anything else, but the ease and boldness of Keith’s tone sets Shiro’s blood on fire.

“I mean, yes,” Shiro whispers, his hands halfway down to try and cover his boner before he realizes there’s absolutely no point. Keith’s seen it, obviously.

“Fuck, Shiro. If you weren’t hurt I’d make you feel so good.” Keith pauses, hovering a foot or so from the couch, his voice going just a little quiet as he says, “if you wanted me to.”

“I want you to,” Shiro confirms, shifting his hips. Keith’s proximity is only making things worse. Shiro wants to touch him so badly there’s a visceral ache in his bones. He wants to reach out and skim his hands down Keith’s sides, to watch his tummy tremble as Shiro traces his belly button. He wants to know what kind of sounds Keith makes when he’s turned on.

“You’re hurt, though,” Keith murmurs, inching just a little bit closer despite his half- hearted objection.

“Did you know orgasms are a natural pain reliever?” Shiro blurts, only mildly blushing at the way Keith’s eyebrow arches at the statement.

“Are they now?” Keith grins. 

“Yes,” Shiro asserts, his dick throbbing. “You’d be helping me, taking care of me, even. You know, more than you already have.” Shiro pauses, realizing he’s propositizing the sexy mountain man he’s known for less than forty-eight hours. It’s so entirely unlike Shiro, but it feels so right. “Just...if you want to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Keith answers, his voice deepening as his lips turn up in the corners in a grin so laced with innuendo that Shiro’s dick weeps. 

Keith is so sexy Shiro might die.

Based on Keith’s confession and the glint in his eye, Shiro feels pretty confident he and Keith are on the same wavelength. At least until Keith abruptly turns without a word and walks to the fire instead of towards Shiro. 

He passes the dresser and moves to the fireplace instead, grabbing the poker and jabbing at the logs until the fire rises. He adds another fresh log and then fiddles with the poker and some kindling until the fire—previously down to barely flickering embers—now blazes with warmth. 

Shiro expects Keith to return to his side, but instead he walks to the front door and turns the knob. Kosmo’s ears perk up at the sound and he’s off the bed before the door’s fully open. “Live your best life, buddy. Go chase some squirrels.”

Kosmo barks loudly, his tail thunking Keith on the way out.

It’s only when they’re alone that Keith turns his attention back on Shiro. Something about the look in Keith’s eyes—equal parts arousal and fierce determination—sends chills through Shiro. There’s an intensity to Keith’s gaze that Shiro is unused to and he likes it. He likes it a lot.

On Keith’s way to the couch, his towel gets caught on the edge of the coffee table, causing it to fall to the floor. Rather than blush or grab it, Keith continues to walk towards Shiro with his erection bobbing, unbothered by his now complete nakedness. His unabashed self assurance is as sexy as he is and Shiro is half afraid he might come in his sweats just from looking at the way Keith’s smile softens for Shiro as he squats down. He’s not kissing Shiro, he’s sliding his arms beneath him.

“What are you doing?” Shiro croaks as he’s lifted from the sofa as if he were light as a feather. There’s no strain on Keith’s face, just unmistakable smugness as he holds Shiro to his chest in a bridal carry.

“I’m taking care of you, obviously,” he grins, walking them towards the bed.

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, too turned on to be embarrassed by the little wet spot that forms on the front of the sweats. “You’re so strong.”

Keith clearly knows his strength is a turn on for Shiro; there’s no point pretending otherwise, especially not when the knowledge seems to delight Keith as much as it does Shiro.

“Damn right I am,” Keith agrees, depositing Shiro on the bed with a surprising amount of gentleness. 

“I like it.”

“Yeah?” The mattress dips with his weight as he climbs up, moving between the spread of Shiro’s legs. “What else do you like?”

There’s no posturing in his question, just genuine curiosity. Not so much cockiness as confidence in his tone, a boyish bit of pride evident on his face as he bites his lip and sits completely naked before Shiro without an ounce of bashfulness. It makes Shiro feel just that little bit more brazen as well.

“Everything.”

Keith scoffs, as if it’s hard to believe. It’s a momentary lapse though, the self-assurance creeping back in with his next words.

“Fair warning, I haven’t really done this before. But if I can build a cabin with my own hands, then I’m pretty sure I can get you off.”

Leave it to Keith to somehow sound a little insecure and a lot cocky all at once.

“As long as you’re touching me I’m going to be a happy man,” Shiro tells him, reaching out to ghost the tips of his metal fingers down Keith’s leg. Keith startles and Shiro yanks his hand back, prepared to apologize. He’s known men before who didn’t like the feeling of the prosthetic, especially during sex. He should have asked. He—

“You’re getting too cold,” Keith interrupts, bending backward to grab the blanket off the foot of the bed. He shakes it out, draping it over his shoulders like a cape and then leaning forward so Shiro’s covered by the blanket, too. “There, that’s better.”

“Oh, I thought—” Shiro stops, cutting himself off.

“Thought what?” Keith asks, pushing Shiro’s legs further apart so he can shimmy closer, his knees snug against the insides of Shiro’s thighs.

“Just, you know—the prosthetic.” His voice drops on the last word.

Keith’s eyes widen and before Shiro can say more, he’s pulling Shiro’s metal hand towards his leg and resting it on his thigh. “Just for the record as long as _you’re_ touching me I’ll be a happy man.”

“I feel like it’s cheating to say the same thing I said,” Shiro huffs, unsure what to do with the lump forming in his throat. 

“Uh, you can’t cheat if there are no rules,” Keith says seriously, smoothing his fingers over the thick waistband of Shiro’s sweats.

“If there were rules, would you break them?” Shiro asks, too sore to lift his hips and help Keith. Lucky for Shiro, Keith doesn’t need any assistance, his fingers hooking under the waistband. 

“Damn right I would,” Keith smirks, dragging the backs of his fingers under the elastic. 

His nails tickle Shiro’s stomach, something halfway between a laugh and a moan leaving Shiro’s lips as Keith tugs the sweats down. It takes a bit of maneuvering and the blanket slips off Keith’s shoulders once, but eventually he gets Shiro’s sweats off and resituates himself between the spread of Shiro’s legs. 

“Wow, you’re a big boy everywhere,” Keith says as his hands glide up Shiro’s thighs, his eyes very clearly on Shiro’s dick.

“Yeah, big,” Shiro exhales, hardly able to think clearly with Keith’s hands on him. Hands which are applying just the right amount of pressure to make Shiro ache with arousal as the rough pads of his fingers smooth down along the delicate insides of Shiro’s thighs and then back up over his hips and the flat of his belly. He takes his time getting to Shiro’s erection but Shiro doesn’t mind. 

Keith’s touch is curious and unrestrained, and Shiro is mesmerized by the look in Keith’s eyes as he traces his fingers from Shiro’s belly button down his treasure trail to finger the dark hair above his dick.

“Tickles,” Shiro laughs when Keith continues his ministrations. 

“Oops.” Keith’s left hand hits the mattress at Shiro’s side as his right hand finds its way to Shiro’s dick. He curls his fingers around the shaft, eyes focused on Shiro’s face as he gives it a firm stroke. “How about now?”

“Nope,” Shiro gasps, a tiny shudder wracking his body when Keith strokes him again. 

“Good.” Keith grins, his own dick bumping Shiro’s leg as he shifts to straddle Shiro’s left thigh. “Is this okay? Just needed to change the angle.”

“It’s great,” Shiro nods, resisting the pull to close his eyes. As much as he wants to focus on the sensation of Keith’s hand as it moves up and down his dick, he also wants to memorize the play of emotions on Keith’s face—the way his mouth falls open as he strokes faster, the widening of his eyes when Shiro leaks a bit of precome onto his fingers and the way his pretty lips look as he moans when Shiro shifts and gives Keith’s balls a bit of friction.

Objectively Keith’s earlier words were accurate—he clearly doesn’t have a lot of experience. His strokes are a little too fast and the angle is obviously new to him because more than once Shiro’s dick slips out of his hand completely, resulting in Keith’s cheeks going red as he reaches for it again, clearly a little embarrassed.

It’s absolutely amazing. Shiro wants him to know.

“This feels so good,” he groans, bringing his left hand up to stroke along Keith’s side. 

“Yeah?” Keith asks, pausing to stare at Shiro.

“Yeah,” Shiro echoes. 

“I uh...I don’t...I’ve never done this with anyone else.” His hair is slipping out of the bun, his face and neck flushed. There’s a sweetness about him that makes it hard for Shiro to breathe, that makes him want to stay here forever with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the fire crackling in the corner. 

Shiro knows that no matter what happens later he won’t ever forget this moment, won’t ever forget Keith.

He’s still not sure what exactly this means, or what Keith might want from him. All he knows is that whatever Keith wants, Shiro wants to give him. 

“I like the way you touch me,” Shiro whispers as his fingers dance down the curve of Keith’s spine. Keith keens, arching forward in an action that brings his dick down against Shiro’s thigh.

“Fuck, sorry.”

“God you’re gorgeous,” Shiro murmurs, spreading the fingers of his palm out on Keith’s lower back. “You can do it again.”

Keith’s eyes fly up, his grip on Shiro’s dick slackening. “But I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

“Fun fact, nothing makes me feel better than knowing I make someone else feel good. Call it a two thing.” Shiro grins. Keith huffs, still looking a little unsure. To hammer home his conviction, Shiro smooths his palm down over the swell of Keith’s ass, giving one cheek a squeeze and urging him down. “I’d feel really, really good watching you fuck my thigh.”

The sound Keith makes is unlike anything Shiro’s heard before as Keith abandons holding Shiro’s dick in favor of holding his face, his hands coming up to cup Shiro’s cheeks as he kisses him with such intensity Shiro can barely breathe. When he pulls back, Shiro’s heart is racing and the slight sting in his ribs is belied by the wave of arousal from the way Keith is looking at him.

“If you need me to stop, just tell me. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Shiro is pretty sure he could be dying and he wouldn’t tell Keith for fear of him pulling away but he wisely keeps the thought to himself.

“I’ve never come in front of anyone else,” Keith says, the blanket slipping off his shoulders as he positions himself on his hands and knees above Shiro’s thigh. 

“Are you nervous?” Shiro asks, giving Keith’s hip a little squeeze.

Keith blinks, seemingly surprised by the question. “No, I’m excited.”

“God, you’re fucking sweet.”

The flush on Keith’s cheeks spreads to his neck and down his chest, little splotches of red visible beneath the dark hair there. Shiro’s ribs ache dully and the room is just this side of too warm now with the blazing fire and the heat coming off Keith’s body, but somehow all of it just makes the moment better, more real. 

Keith starts slow, barely touching Shiro as he rolls his hips. He’s got his head dropped down between his arms, little puffs of air falling from his lips. His arms tremble as his dick barely grazes Shiro’s thigh, a drop of precome leaking from the tip.

He’s holding back.

“Come on,” Shiro murmurs, moving his hands down from Keith’s waist to his ass, pulling him down against his thigh.

Unprepared for the extra help, Keith’s knees slip as he rubs up against Shiro, hard. It rips a moan from Keith, who clenches his hands in the blanket and pants.

“Look at you,” Shiro praises, giving Keith’s ass another squeeze. “You should do that again. You look so hot.”

“Fuck,” Keith groans, eyes blown wide with desire now. “Shiro.”

“Yeah, sweetheart. You’re so hard, you should keep going. Show me how good it feels.”

“Jesus Christ,” Keith gets out, rocking his hips again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck. Fuck my thigh. You look so pretty like this.”

Keith groans louder, arching his back as he begins to rut against Shiro in earnest now, dragging his cock against Shiro’s upper thigh with every rock of his hips. It’s not long before his movements turn erratic, bits of hair falling out of the bun and into his face as he grunts and groans and rubs himself frantically against Shiro’s thigh.

“So gorgeous,” Shiro tells him, kneading Keith’s ass. 

When one of his fingers slips between the crack of Keith’s ass, Keith lets out a needy, desperate sound as his thighs shake. It’s all the warning Shiro gets before Keith is coming in hot, thick bursts that coat Shiro’s thigh.

“Fucking fuck,” Keith whimpers, slowing his movements but not quite stopping. “Shit, shit. I didn’t mean to come so fast, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That was basically one of the hottest things to ever happen to me,” Shiro assures him, unable to stop touching Keith as he smooths his palms up Keith’s back. “Also, uh, you know, kind of good for my ego. I know I kind of look like a hot mess right now, but—

“You’re so fucking hot,” Keith interrupts.

Shiro doesn’t argue, a smile playing on his face. It’s hard to feel insecure about any part of his body or his injuries when Keith keeps saying things like this. Before he can properly respond, though, Keith’s talking again. “Can I suck your dick please?”

Shiro’s never had anyone ask so politely or look so excited by the prospect.

“You can do anything you want to me,” Shiro breathes, widening his legs as Keith settles between them.

“Remember what I warned you about?” Keith huffs, pressing a kiss to the inside of Shiro’s thigh. “I, uh, I don’t share well with others. I can be a little selfish with things that are mine. Call it an only child thing, maybe.”

The mere hint that Shiro might be Keith’s sends Shiro’s arousal skyrocketing, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he’s sure Keith must be able to feel it.

“You can be selfish with me.” Shiro slides his fingers into Keith’s hair as he hovers above Shiro’s dick, his mouth as wide open as his eyes. 

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me, Shiro,” he groans. 

Shiro’s not sure how to respond to that, so he settles for spreading his legs as far as he comfortably can, shivering when Keith runs his palms up and down, giving each of them a squeeze. His thighs are one of the only places on his body that aren’t sore and he relishes the attention Keith lavishes on them, closing his eyes as Keith scoots his knees further down the bed and replaces his hands with his mouth—kissing and sucking his way from Shiro’s left knee up to the top of his thigh. He stays there the longest, half heartedly fondling Shiro’s dick with his free hand and giving it a few distracted strokes as he sucks a massive love bite into Shiro’s thigh. 

“You, uh...you like my thighs?” Shiro gasps, unprepared for Keith to detach his mouth and do the same thing to the other side. 

“God, yes,” Keith whispers, lightly kneading the area with his fingers. “Thick, so thick.”

It’s on the tip of Shiro’s tongue to make a joke about the holes that get worn in the thighs of his pants when Keith begins nosing at the sensitive inside of his right thigh and steals all coherent thoughts from Shiro’s brain. Any hope Shiro has of regaining his ability to speak is lost when moves his mouth up and sucks at the juncture where Shiro’s thigh meets his hip. 

Shiro tries to be quiet, really he does, but one man can only have so much self control. Shiro’s been through the emotional ringer the last few days and he’s possibly more touch-starved than he ever realized now the man of his dreams is sucking and nipping at his delicate skin. It just feels so good.

So good that Shiro lets out a loud whimper. Keith sucks harder, his hands roaming delicately over the flat of Shiro’s tummy as he makes his way closer and closer to Shiro’s dick.

“Oh, you like this,” Keith says, no small amount of smugness creeping into his voice as he looks up at Shiro. His lips are red, a little bit of spit at the corners, and his hair is a mess. He looks so genuinely happy just from touching Shiro that it’s all Shiro can do not to cry. 

“ _Keith._ ”

“Is it just being touched that you like? Or my mouth? Or do you like when I leave marks?” Keith asks, eyes wide and curious as he hovers above Shiro’s leaking dick.

“All of it?” Shiro croaks, unsure how he’s supposed to answer a question like that when Keith is so close to his dick.

“Okay, good. I’m going to remember this.”

Before Shiro can comment, Keith ducks his head and swallows Shiro’s dick. It’s so unexpected that Shiro lets out a cry, his hips flying up. Keith gags a bit, pulling off Shiro’s dick and coughing.

“Shit, shit. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I like it,” Keith says, licking his lips. “Just wasn’t ready. Will you do it again?”

All the blood rushes to Shiro’s dick, his ears ringing. Keith can’t possibly mean what Shiro thinks. He’s got to be misunderstanding. 

“ _What_?”

“Shove your dick into my mouth,” Keith clarifies, with a bluntness only he would be capable of. “I like things in my mouth.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to kill me.”

“That would be really counterintuitive to all the hard work I did to save you,” Keith laughs, winking at Shiro before swallowing his dick again. 

This time Shiro doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. It’s a lost cause. It doesn’t matter that Keith occasionally pulls off his dick, coughing to catch his breath, or that more than once his teeth graze the underside of Shiro’s dick. What matters is that it’s _Keith_. 

Despite his obvious inexperience, his unrestrained joy at sucking dick is obvious in the way he hums, bobbing his head and moaning like Shiro’s dick is the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth around. At one point Keith pulls off, wrapping his fingers around the bottom of the shaft and half sucking, half licking up the top.

“Too big, can’t fit it all,” Keith offers by way of explanation.

Shiro opens his mouth to respond, but Keith chooses that exact moment to drag his tongue over the exposed cockhead, licking away the precome gathering at the slit and causing Shiro to make a noise he’s positive he’s never made in front of another human being.

“It’s salty, I like it,” Keith says before suckling at the cockhead again. 

“Jesus,” Shiro groans, smoothing his hand along the side of Keith’s hair.

Keith licks a drop of come off the corner of his mouth, tilting his head to the side as he gazes at Shiro. He shifts, reaching back to tug the tie out of his hair so that it spills down around his shoulders in dark waves. “You wanna pull it?”

Shiro nearly wheezes.

“Oh, you don’t have to. Just, you know, you look at my hair a lot and you keep touching my head and—”

“I like your hair,” Shiro interrupts, his cheeks burning.

The tentative smile on Keith’s face grows as he reaches for Shiro’s metal fingers and guides them into his hair. “You can pull if you want.”

This is the point when Shiro gives up any hope of acting restrained and he moans, spreading his legs wide as his fingers curl into Keith’s hair. Clearly delighted by the contact, Keith rubs his hand into Shiro’s palm until Shiro gives it a little tug. This seems to satisfy Keith who hums in pleasure, the vibrations reverberating against Shiro’s dick as Keith opens wide and begins to bob his head one more, still stroking the bottom half that won’t fit in his mouth.

Something about Keith’s eager inexperience coupled with his earnestness brings Shiro close to the edge. It’s not the most skilled blowjob of his life, but it’s definitely the best.

“Keith I’m gonna—” he gasps, trying to tug Keith back off his dick in warning.

Keith doubles down, turning his eyes up towards Shiro’s face as he sucks him down deeper—Keith’s pretty lips stretched wide around his girth and his eyes watering at the corners. It’s too much for Shiro. He’s helpless to stave off his orgasm, letting out a guttural groan and tightening his hold on Keith’s hair as he comes.

In true Keith fashion, he sucks with single-minded determination, gaze dropping down to Shiro’s crotch as he bobs his head and hums, lapping and sucking at Shiro’s dick until he’s milked dry and his legs are shaking. When he pulls off, there’s come dripping down his chin and his lips are swollen. If Shiro hadn’t just come harder than he has in years, he’s pretty sure he’d come from the sight of Keith post-blow job, tugging his hair back up into a messy bun and grinning at Shiro as he swipes the come from his chin with his thumb then pops it into his mouth and sucks it clean.

“Yeah, I definitely like that,” Keith declares. 

There was definitely no question in Shiro’s mind about how much Keith enjoyed having Shiro’s dick in his mouth but hearing him _say_ as much is the nail in Shiro’s coffin. As good as the last few minutes have been, he’s breathing so heavily now his ribs ache, which hardly comes close to the way his heart feels—raw and exposed and unused to the kind of attention Keith is lavishing on him.

With an audible groan, Shiro throws his left arm over his face.

“You okay up there, big boy?”

“Nngghh,” Shiro grunts, his brain void of all coherent thoughts.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, smoothing a hand over Shiro’s knee. 

“M’fine,” Shiro mumbles, embarrassed at the way his voice shakes but not wanting Keith to worry.

“Was it okay?” Keith asks, dragging his fingers through the sticky mess on Shiro’s left thigh.

“It was amazing,” Shiro tells him, lifting his arm just enough to peer down at Keith. “ _You’re_ amazing.”

Color rises high on Keith’s cheeks, his chest puffing up with pride. He’s so sweet Shiro isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. 

“Good,” Keith grins, climbing from the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Gotta clean you up,” Keith says, eyeing Shiro’s lower half, which feels pretty damn sticky before turning and walking away. Shiro doesn’t bother pretending not to watch Keith’s glorious ass as he strides across the room. 

Keith heads into the bathroom and Shiro listens to the sound of the water running for a minute before Keith returns with a damp washcloth and a dry towel. He positions himself on the edge of the bed, bringing the wet washcloth up to Shiro’s thigh. He mentally prepares himself for the cold, but it doesn't come. Keith’s warmed the water first and the washcloth is blissfully hot as it drags over Shiro’s thigh. Keith’s nothing if not thorough, swiping it up the delicate inside of his thigh and around his abdomen, not stopping until Shiro’s completely clean. He follows it up with the dry towel, ensuring that Shiro isn’t damp anywhere before gathering the discarded blankets and tucking him in.

“You should rest,” Keith tells him, bracketing his hands on either side of Shiro’s head and leaning over him.

“I didn’t do anything but lay here,” Shiro objects, trying to stifle the yawn he feels coming on.

“Oh, I dunno, must be exhausting being so fucking sexy.”

Shiro chokes out a laugh, cheeks flushing at the sincerity with which Keith says it. 

“Damn that’s a pretty smile,” Keith says, dropping his head to kiss Shiro. It’s just a light kiss, the barest press of lips, but it soothes the rattling inside of Shiro. “Now rest.”

“Only if you rest with me,” Shiro says.

“Oh,” Keith says, biting down on his bottom lip. “Yeah? You, uh, you don’t mind?”

“No, I don’t mind. To be honest I just really want to touch you right now,” Shiro confesses, his heart flip flopping in his chest at the speed with which Keith climbs onto the bed and slips beneath the covers. 

“Better?” Keith asks.

“Would be better if you were closer,” Shiro says, turning his head towards Keith as he slowly inches closer, his cheek on the pillow beside Shiro.

He’s so close, but it’s not close enough and Shiro swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Is this as close as you want to be? Or—”

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” Keith says as his fingers ghost over Shiro’s side.

“You won’t,” Shiro assures him, lifting his left arm.

Keith doesn’t need to be told twice, adjusting himself so that he’s snug in the crook of Shiro’s arm. He hesitates for a second before snaking his left arm out to rest over Shiro’s belly, careful to avoid the bruises. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, god,” Shiro exhales, bending his elbow to toy with the bits of hair at Keith’s face.

“I’ve never done this,” Keith says, words a little garbled against Shiro’s shoulder.

“You were a natural.”

“Oh, thanks.” Keith laughs. If Shiro’s not mistaken Keith’s smiling. “I, um, I meant the cuddling, though.”

_Oh._

“Do you like it?” Shiro asks, tightening the hold he has around Keith.

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, his voice so small. “And I, um, I like you.”

Shiro clenches his jaw, fighting off the inexplicable urge to cry. He’s never cried after sex. He almost never cries, period, falling down a mountain notwithstanding. But something about Keith makes Shiro feel exposed in the best way possible. 

“I like you too, Keith. So much.”

Warm air puffs across his shoulder as Keith mouths something unintelligible, slipping his fingers beneath Shiro’s back to tighten the hold he has on him and slipping a leg between Shiro’s.

They fall into silence after that but there’s nothing stilted or awkward about it, rather it’s peaceful. 

Sore but content as hell, Shiro’s drifts to sleep basked in warmth.

The next time he wakes it’s definitely later in the day, the sunlight streaming through the open curtains further in the distance than it was before. He’s got an urgent need to pee and he’s starving. The most noticeable thing, though, is the warmth along his left side.

A glance down shows a dark head of hair and Keith even more entangled with him than he was when they fell asleep—every inch of his body plastered to Shiro’s body, his arm nearly choking Shiro wrapped around his neck. It’s incredible and Shiro’s never been happier about being unable to pee or breathe. Eventually Shiro’s biological needs overrule his heart’s desire to cuddle the beautiful man in his arms and he knows if he doesn’t get up soon, he is really going to embarrass himself.

Keith’s clearly a light sleeper because Shiro’s barely started to shift sideways to sneak out of the bed when Keith grunts unhappily, burying his face into Shiro’s shoulder like a disgruntled bear. Shiro ignores his bodily urges for as long as he can, stroking his fingers up and down Keith’s spine and delighting in the way Keith tries to nuzzle himself against Shiro’s body in response. 

Unfortunately it can only last so long and Shiro is forced to move.

“I gotta get up,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of Keith’s head.

“S’wrong?” Keith grumbles, lifting his face to look at Shiro. The hair in the front is sticking up and there’s a little bit of drool on the side of his face. His lips are turned down in a little frown, leaving Shiro with no question about Keith’s feelings about the current change of events.

“Nothing, just gotta pee. I’m sorry.”

“S’fine,” Keith yawns, stretching languidly like a cat before sitting up.

Shiro all but forgot they were both naked and his departure from bed is nearly interrupted by the sudden need to reach out for Keith and pull him into a kiss. He stops, but only barely. If he starts to touch Keith now, he won’t be able to stop and Shiro’s not really into watersports.

By the time he’s relieved himself, Keith’s out of bed and dressed; he even made the bed and put the kettle on. He helps Shiro get dressed again before brewing another one of his famous blends of tea before retrieving Kosmo from outside. While Shiro drinks his tea on the couch—something with candied bits of lemon and orange peel and cloves that makes Shiro feel warm from the inside out—Keith spends an extraordinary amount of time in the bathroom washing the mud off Kosmo who, from the sounds of it, is not as big a fan of being washed by Keith as Shiro was.

Eventually they exit the bathroom and Kosmo, now decidedly cleaner, stakes his claim on the bed where he promptly takes a nap. Disgruntled and wet, Keith changes yet again, this time into a pair of black sweats, a long sleeve white thermal and an oversized flannel, a combination that makes Shiro’s heart race. His mood brightens considerably from one single kiss from Shiro, who can hardly believe that less than seventy-two hours ago he didn’t even know Keith and now they’re cohabitating—albeit temporarily. 

Dinner is a cozy affair that night, more leftovers from the freezer, which Keith claims is nothing but impresses the hell out of Shiro. He devours the chicken pot pie with such gusto he needs seconds before Keith’s even done with his own. When Shiro praises his pie crust, Keith abandons his food in favor of climbing into Shiro’s lap on the couch, careful not to put too much of his weight on Shiro’s lap as he kisses him. They get so carried away Keith has to reheat the food, _twice_.

Once dinner is over Keith helps Shiro ice his bruises, take more Advil, and settle him back on the couch before offering to read more. They pick up where they left off, spending the rest of the evening side by side on the couch. Eventually Kosmo joins them, though to Shiro’s surprise he ends up with his head in Shiro’s lap, not Keith’s. Shiro has to fight back a wave of emotions as he strokes his flesh fingers through Kosmo’s soft fur, watching the roaring fire and listening to the soothing timbre of Keith’s voice.

When it’s time for bed, there seems to be no question that Keith will join him again. Kosmo, refusing to be left out of the equation, jumps onto the end of the mattress on top of their legs and refuses to move even when Keith tells him he’s too big.

There’s no more sex that night, but what transpires feels infinitely more intimate.

They stay up half the night, holding hands beneath the blankets and talking. Sometimes it’s small things, like what color Skittle Keith thinks tastes the best or Shiro finally asking Keith just how many pieces of flannel attire he owns, which earns him an embarrassed laugh from Keith and a pinch on the ass. Other times the mood sombers as they talk about things that should be heavy to share with someone you’ve only known a few days but somehow are easy to share. Keith starts first, talking about his one failed attempt to join mainstream classes in middle school and the bullying and fights, and mostly about his fears that his inability to ever be like everyone else would leave him lonely. In turn Shiro talks about his childhood, of his closeness to his grandparents and the pain of losing them. He talks about his accident and the arm, telling Keith about some of the darkest moments of his life—things he’d never even told his parents, only his therapist, for fear of being too much.

The more Shiro talks, the more he wants to say, but he also wants to listen—soaking up every little tidbit Keith shares about himself.

Before tonight Shiro would’ve said the most intimate thing you can do with someone is fuck them. Now he’s not so sure.

Tonight, holding hands and sharing truths, Shiro feels as if he’s bared a part of his soul to someone for the first time. He’s not inexperienced with sex or dating the way Keith is, but somehow this feels like his first time all over again. When he says as much, Keith just lets out a little puff of air, kissing Shiro with such an intensity Kosmo barks at them before hopping off the bed to sleep on the couch instead. 

They talk and talk until the first light of dawn peeks through the windows and the last embers of the fire have dwindled down to nothing. Keith falls asleep first, mouth open and with his head once again pillowed in the crook of Shiro’s arm.

A few moments after, Shiro follows suit, more content than he’s been in a long damn time.

* * *

Shiro wakes up slowly, the sounds of the morning filtering into his ears long before he opens his eyes—birds chirping outside, a fire once again crackling in the fireplace and something sizzling on the stove. It's the last one that gets his attention and he cracks his eyes open to see Keith with his back to Shiro, humming quietly as he cooks. 

Fondness and something infinitely more substantial well up in Shiro as he inhales the lingering scent of Keith on the pillow, along with the fire and the butter sizzling. In just a few short days, they’re smells Shiro has come to associate with comfort and safety. It's hard to believe how comfortable he feels here. 

“Morning,” Shiro says, very slowly sitting up. His body still aches, but it feels more manageable today and less like he might die if he moves wrong.

“More like afternoon.” Keith laughs, turning to grin at Shiro over shoulder. 

Shiro is struck stupid by how pretty Keith is, his heart thundering in his chest and the air leaving his lungs. 

Keith is beautiful. He’s beautiful and smart and kind and funny and Shiro likes him so much he’s not sure he can stomach the idea of leaving this cabin without being sure of what’s happening between them. 

“You okay?” Keith asks, turning towards Shiro with his eyebrows furrowed.

“I’m good,” Shiro says, pushing his thoughts aside. He should wait, let things transpire naturally. He doesn’t want to spook Keith.

“Alright,” Keith concedes, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I’m just making bacon and eggs. It’s nearly two, so we basically slept the entire day away, but the sun is shining and the mud has dried. It’s gonna be a good day.”

“The mud has dried,” Shiro echoes, recalling one of Keith’s comments from last night about waiting for it to be safe for them to leave.

“Yup, tested it out myself. Still a little muddy in some of the shadier areas of the forest where the sun doesn’t quite reach, but the main trail from my cabin to the rescue is cleared. Pop hiked it this morning, left a tin of my mom’s fresh baked cookies even. Apparently he peeked in through the window and saw we were fine and left the cookies on the porch instead.”

Keith’s ears go red at the confession as he stirs the eggs on the stove, his gaze on Shiro.

Keith’s pop was here. Keith’s pop saw them.

“Oh shit,” Shiro groans, collapsing back onto the bed with a wince of pain.

“I mean, yeah.” Keith tries to laugh, but he doesn’t sound at all amused. “I guess I left the curtain in the living room open and the note says he, uh, you know, saw us sleeping. Which we were. Only sleeping, I mean.”

Shiro groans louder, grabbing the pillow and covering his face. Keith’s dad probably hates him now. For all he knows he’s going to be fired before he even gets a chance to begin. He’s already sold most of his shit and packed what he couldn’t part with in his parents’ attic. He knows his parents would welcome him home with open arms, but besides them there’s nothing for Shiro in Kansas. Everything he wants is here in California—the woods and the wolves, and _Keith_.

And now, he’s going to lose them.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Keith says, tugging the pillow away from his face. Shiro blinks at the sudden brightness, unsure how Keith crossed the room without him hearing.

“No, it’s not,” Shiro groans.

Keith’s lip trembles as he forces a smile. “Hey, I mean, it’s okay. Dad won’t tell Mom if I ask him not to and this can just stay in the past. It’s okay, I get if it was like a one time thing. I mean, it was silly to think this was like, you know, something special.” His voice trails off, the last word barely audible. It takes Shiro’s brain a few seconds to catch up and when he does, it’s his turn to frown.

“Wait, what?”

“Us,” Keith repeats, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It was fun. But I’m not gonna hold it against you if you want to just pretend whatever happened didn’t happen. When we go back to the reserve if you want to—”

“Stop,” Shiro interrupts, reaching out to encircle Keith’s wrist in his metal fingers. “Keith, no.”

“No?” Keith echoes, voice wobbling a little.

“No,” Shiro echoes, ignoring his own pain as he rises to stand, moving his left hand to cup the side of Keith’s face. “I don’t want to forget a single thing.”

“Oh,” Keith whispers. “But you said ‘shit’.”

“Yeah, because my new boyfriend’s dad slash new boss caught us sleeping together.”

“New boyfriend?” Keith croaks.

“Oh, um, yes. I think? I hope? I mean, shit—yes. If you want to be, that is. I know we didn’t really talk about what it all means but you’ve got to know, I don’t do things by half. If we’re doing this, and god, I hope we are, then I’m all in, Keith.”

“So just to clarify, you weren’t freaking out because you were embarrassed about being with me or regretting being with someone so inexperienced.”

“No,” Shiro assures, pulling him to his chest and enveloping Keith in a hug. “There’s not a damn thing about you I would ever be embarrassed about. I mean, okay, I’m a little embarrassed because I don’t even talk to my own parents about who I sleep with but also I don’t regret a single thing that happened. I was just worried your dad might be mad or I might get fired or—”

“Oh no, that’s not going to happen.” Keith laughs. “Pop signed the note _good job, son, he’s a keeper_ so I’m pretty sure dad’s fucking elated I’m dating someone he likes. In fact, just as like a fair warning, he’s probably going to be insufferable about how he found you first.”

“I think I can handle that.” Shiro laughs.

“So you’re really not sorry?” Keith asks, pulling out of the hug just enough to tip his face up to Shiro’s.

“Really,” Shiro assures him. “The only thing I’m gonna be sorry about is leaving you.”

“About that,” Keith says, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck. “Pop and mom have been bugging me about not visiting enough outside of work hours. I was thinking when we walk you back to the rescue later today that I might stay for a few days. They’ve got the little cabin on the property all ready for you and a spare bed at the main house I could crash on. I could, I could pop around and check on you. Maybe bring a book or two to read while you finish recovering. If you wanted.”

“How big is the bed?” Shiro asks. “In the cabin.”

“Uh, about as big as mine, why?”

“So it’s big enough for two?” Shiro asks, leaning down to kiss Keith.

“Yes,” Keith answers breathlessly when Shiro pulls out of the kiss. “But why— _oh._.”

“Just if you wanted,” Shiro says. “If you wanted more space or privacy I’d understand, but—”

Keith launches himself upward, slamming his lips to Shiro’s in a kiss that gives him all the answer he needs. When he pulls back, there’s a smile so wide it splits his face in two and Shiro can hardly breathe through the fluttering in his chest.

“I’m not….I’m not good at dating, okay? So if I’m too much or something you can tell me, okay? I might make mistakes or be a lot to handle. Sometimes I need quiet or space and I forget holidays and I’m not good at taking things slow. I don’t know how to like things, or you, a normal amount.”

“Normal is overrated,” Shiro says, smoothing his thumb over the arch of Keith’s cheek. “And you’re not too much. You’re perfect. I like you, Keith. More than I’ve ever liked anyone. This place—you, the wolves—this is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Keith huffs, eyes watering. “ _Shiro_.”

“I mean it,” Shiro says, kissing Keith’s forehead. “I’m happy. I’m sore as hell but fuck it, Keith, I’m so happy.”

“I’m happy, too.” 

Shiro pulls him in for another hug, Keith burying his face in Shiro’s neck. It smells like the eggs are burning, and Shiro’s not sure he can make the entire five mile hike without having to ask Keith to carry him, and his new boss is apparently also his boyfriend’s dad, which is somehow both amazing and awkward as hell, but one thing rings clear and true.

Shiro is here with Keith, and together they’re going to figure this out.

It might not be easy, but Shiro’s up for the adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream about Shieth with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)
> 
> This fic now has some gorgeous art by Stoopz which you can see [here](https://twitter.com/st00pzdraws/status/1340671188628959232) <3


End file.
